UC-NRLF 


27M    fill 


I.1HKARY 

OK  THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


FT  O 


IN   THE    MORNING. 


IN  THE  MORNING. 


BY 

WILLIS    BOYD   ALLEN. 


Den  Abend  lang  wahret  das  Weinen, 
Aber  des  Morgans  die  Freude. 

LUTHER'S  VERSION. 

Hear  what  the  Morning  says,  and  believe  that. 

EMERSON. 


NEW  YORK: 

ANSON   D.   F.  RANDOLPH   AND   CO. 

38  WEST  TWENTY-THIRD  STREET. 

1890. 


Copyright,  1890, 
BY  WILLIS  BOYU  ALLEN. 

it/rt 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


mg  JHotfjer. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
AT  CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE 9 


VITA  NUOVA u 

NOT  IN  THE  WHIRLWIND 15 

DIAPASON      17 

CHAMOUNIX       20 

IN  THE  MORNING 22 

MARIGOLD 25 

"  SEVENTEEN,  EIGHTEEN,  MAID  's  A- WAITING  !  "  27 

To  M ,  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY 29 

" YOURS  TRULY"       30 

A  SERMON  BY  A  LAY  PREACHER 32 

IN  SOMNO  VERITAS 36 

THALATTA 38 

UNKNOWN 39 

MY  CROSS 4! 

A  VALENTINE 42 

WHITE  PINK 44 

APRILLE 45 

MAY  A& 


6  Contents. 

PAGE 

AUGUST 47 

CARLO'S  CHRISTMAS 48 

THE  SUN  WAS  RED  AND  Low  .....  50 

Two  VISIONS 52 

MY  CREED 54 

AGAIN  ? 55 

PANSY 56 

GOLDEN-ROD 57 

To  MARGARET,  ON  ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY      .  58 

To  A  VERY  SMALL  PINE 59 

MOSSES 61 

THE  MOUNT  OF  THE  HOLY  CROSS     ....  63 

CHRISTMAS  SNOW       64 

THE  "  CREATION  " 65 

THE  HAPPY  VALLEY 67 

DOLLIE'S  SPRING 7* 

THE  THIRD  DAY 73 

THE  SEVENTH  DAY •     •  73 

FERN  LIFE 75 

Its  Home •     •  75 

At  School 76 

Asleep 76 

A  Cradle-Song  of  the  Night  Wind      ...  77 

The  Chime -  •     •     •  77 

The  Hymn  of  the  Northern  Pines  .     ...  78 

At  Last           79 


Contents.  7 

PAGE 

PAUSES  AND  CLAUSES 80 

To  M ,  WITH  A  COPY  OF  "  THE  PETER- 
KIN  PAPERS" Si 

MEMORIAL  POEM 83 

DANDELION 90 

MARJORIE .  92 

PRIMROSE 94 

CONTENT 96 

WITH  A  SMALL  LETTER-OPENER      ....  98 

SEA-GIRLS 102 

HOMEWARD 104 

A  NONSENSE-SONG  FOR  M 107 

TRANSLATIONS 113 

In  the  North-land 113 

A  Lovely  Flower 113 

Eagerly  I  cry 114 

He  who  for  the  first  Time 114 

Little  Maid 115 

It  was  as  if  the  Heavens 115 

IN  MORNING- LAND 117 

Sic  ITUR  AD  ASTRA 119 

THE  COMET,  NOVEMBER,  1882 121 

"His  STAR" 122 

"LIGHT,  MEHR  LIGHT!" 124 

PSALM  LXXX 126 

UNTO  THE  PERFECT  DAY 127 


8  Contents. 

PAGE 

HYMN  FOR  CHRISTMAS  EVE 128 

BLIND 13° 

REFUGE 133 

GUIDO  RENI'S"  ECCE  HOMO" 135 

ON  CHRISTMAS  EVE 136 

BY  NIGHT 139 

"  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM  " 141 

"BLESSED" 143 

A  CHRISTMAS  PASTORAL 146 

THE  FOURTH  WATCH      148 

"WITH  You  ALWAY  " 151 

DECEMBER  31 152 

IN  MY  ARMCHAIR 154 


UJTI7BRSIT7 


AT  CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE. 

'TWO  sorrie  Thynges  there  be,  — 

Ay,  three  : 
A  Nestefrom  which  ye  Fledglings  have  been 

taken, 

A  Lamb  forsaken, 
A  Petal  from  ye  Wilde  Rose  rudely  shaken. 

Of  gladde  Thynges  there  be  more,  — 

Ay,  four  : 
A  Larke  above  ye  olde  Neste  blithely  singing, 

A   Wilde  Rose  dinging 
In  safety  to  ye  Rock,  a  Shepherde  bringing 
A     Lamb,    found,     in     his     arms,  —  and 

Chrystemesse 
Bells  a-ringing. 


IN   THE   MORNING. 


VITA    NUOVA. 

DESERT,  treeless,  boundless, 
The  low  sun  round  and  red, 
Air  stifling,  moveless,  soundless 
And  I  alone  with  my  dead. 

Her  head  lay  on  my  shoulder, 
The  crimson  light  ebbed  fast ; 

Her  face  grew  paler,  colder  — 
The  face  of  my  own  dead  Past. 

Then  darkness,  black  and  frightful, 
Dropped  from  the  eastern  sky, 

With  never  a  star,  but  a  night- full 
Of  horrors  creeping  by. 


12  In  the  Morning. 

I  saw  how  fiercely  glistened 

Their  mad  eyes,  two  by  two,  — 

They  screamed,  and  as  I  listened 
They  laughed  like  a  demon  crew. 

See  how  that  huge  hyena 

Grows  bolder  than  the  rest  — 

Slinks  —  snarls  —  in  the  arena, 
For  the  corpse  upon  my  breast ! 

I  laughed  like  the  brutes  around  me, 
I  snarled  on  my  stony  bed, 

I  severed  the  ties  that  bound  me 
And  gnashed  upon  the  dead. 

The  tawny-sided  creatures, 

Red  claw  and  dripping  fang, 
The  hideous,  grinning  features, 

The  awful  mirth  that  rang,  — 
All  vanished.     Starless,  boundless, 

The  night  stretched  o'er  my  head. 
In  the  gray  dawn,  soulless,  soundless, 

I  sat  alone  with  my  dead. 


Vita  Nuova.  13 

Then  rustling  forms  drew  nearer. 

By  the  faint  approaching  day 
The  frightful  things  grew  clearer,  — 

Great,  unclean  birds  of  prey 
And  carrion  beasts,  that  waited 

Until,  on  the  booty  rare, 
Their  hunger' foul  should  be  sated 

With  my  poor  Past,  lying  there. 

Oh,  I,  too,  sullen-hearted, 

No  word  of  anguish  said  ; 
Till  bird  and  beast  departed 

I  waited  —  dumb  —  by  the  dead. 

The  white  east  flickered  with  fire, 

A  lark  flew  singing  by, 
The  glad  light  mounted  higher, 

Up-spread  o'er  all  the  sky. 

My  burden,  fair  and  human, 

Still  rested  on  my  hands, 
When  lo  !  a  gracious  Woman, 

Swift  walking  o'er  the  sands, 


14  In  the  Morning. 

Until  she  stood  before  me, 

Breathed  words  of  hope  and  cheer  ; 
Her  radiant  eyes  were  o'er  me, 

Her  presence  warm  and  near, 

And  at  her  voice  —  oh,  wonder  !  — 

The  dead  herself  awoke  ; 
The  birds  no  longer  shunned  her, 

She  smiled,  and  moved,  and  spoke, 
Then,  "  FUTURE  "  named,  to  guide  me 

She  softly  sprang  away  ; 
The  Woman  stayed  beside  me  — 

Sun  rose  —  it  was  full  day. 


Not  in  the  Whirlwind. 


NOT   IN   THE   WHIRLWIND. 

POET  sat  in  his  oaken  chair, 
The  pen  in  -his  eager  hand, 
Awaiting    the    voice    that   should 

declare 
His  Lord's  divine  command. 

The  sad  winds  sobbed  against  the  pane, 

The  tempest's  tramp  he  heard 
As  it  scourged  the  night  with  a  hissing  rain  — 

But  the  Poet  wrote  never  a  word. 

Then  came  a  burst  of  martial  mirth, 

And  mighty  cannon  roared 
Till  they  shook  the  beams  of  the  steadfast 
earth  — 

T  was  not  the  voice  of  the  Lord. 


iG  ///  tbe  Morning. 

In  the  Poet's  heart  a  memory  rose 

Of  love's  first  passionate  thrill 
That,  kindling,  grows  as  the  red  fire  glows  — 

But  the  pen  was  idle,  still ; 

When  lo,  a  timid  voice  at  the  door, 
And  a  child,  with  sweet  delight, 

Called  "  Father  !  "  and  "  Father  !  "  over  and 

o'er  — 
The  poem  was  written  that  night. 


Diapason.  1 7 


DIAPASON. 

N  the  crags  of  a  far-off  mountain- 
top 

At  earliest  dawn  a  snowflake  fell; 
The  North  Wind  stooped  and  cried  to  her, 

"  Stop  ! 

There  is  room  in  my  icy  halls  to  dwell !  " 
The  snowflake  gleamed  like  a  crystal  clear, 
Then  wept  herself  to  a  single  tear, 
Paused,  trembled,  and  slowly  began  to  glide 
Adown  the  slopes  of  the  mountain-side. 

Desolate  ledges,  frost-riven  and  bare, 
A  tiny  rivulet  bore  on  their  breast ; 

Cloud-gray  mosses  and  lichens  fair 

Mutely  besought  her  to  slumber  and  rest. 

The  rivulet  shone  in  the  morning  sun, 

And  touching  them  tenderly,  one  by  one, 

2 


1 8  In  the  Morning. 

With  dewy  lips,  like  the  mountain  mist, 
Each  waiting  face  as  she  passed  she  kissed. 

Among  the  shadows  of  pine  and  fir 

A  stream  danced  merrily  on  her  way ; 
A  thrush  from  his  hermitage  sang  to  her : 
"  Why  dost  thou  haste  ?     Sweet  messen 
ger,  stay  ! " 

The  noontide  shadows  were  cool  and  deep, 
The  pathway  stony,  the  hillside  steep, 
The  bird  still  chanted  with  all  his  art  — 
But  the  stream  ran  on,  with  his  song  in  her 
heart. 

Through  broadening  meadow  and  corn-land 

bright, 

Past  smoke-palled  city  and  flowery  lea, 
A  river  rolled  on,  in  the  fading  light, 

Majestic,  serene,  as  she  neared  the  sea. 
The  sins  and  uncleanness  of  many  she  bore 
To  the   outstretched   arms   of  the  waiting 

shore, 

Till  moonlight  followed  the  sunset  glow 
And   her  crimson  waves  were   as  white  as 
snow. 


Diapason.  19 

On  the  lonely  ledges  of  Appledore 

I  listen  again  to  the  ocean's  song, 
And  lo  !  in  its  music  I  hear  once  more 

The  North  Wind's  clarion,  loud  and  long. 
In  that  solemn  refrain  that  never  shall  end 
The  murmurs  of  swaying  fir-trees  blend, 
The  brooklet's  merry  ripple  and  rush, 
The  evening  hymn  of  the  hermit  thrush, 
The  undertone  of  the  mountain  pine,  — 
The  deep  sweet  voice  of  a  love  divine. 


20  In  the  Morning. 


CHAMOUNIX. 

ITHIN   Thy  holy  temple   have   I 

strayed 
E'en  as  a  weary  child,  who  from 

the  heat 

And  noonday  glare  hath  timid  refuge  sought 
In  some  cathedral's  vast  and  shadowy  aisle, 
And  trembling,  awestruck,  croucheth  in  his 

rags 
Where  high  upreared  a  mighty  pillar  stands. 

Mine  eyes  I  lift  unto  the  hills,  from  whence 
Cometh  my  help.  The  murmuring  firs 

stretch  forth 

Their  myriad  tiny  crosses  o'er  my  head  ; 
Deep  rolls  the  organ  peal  of  thunder  down 
The  echoing  vale,  while  clouds  of  incense 

float 
Around  the  great  white  altar  set  on  high. 


Chamounix.  2 i 

So  lift  my  heart,  O  God,  and  purify 
My  thought,  that  when  I  walk  once  more 
Amid  the  busy,  anxious,  struggling  throng, 
One  cup  of  water  from  these  springs  of  life, 
One  ray  of  sunlight  from  these  golden  days, 
One    jewel    from    the   mountain's   spotless 

brow, 

As  tokens  of  Thy  beauty,  I  may  bear 
To  little  ones  who  toil,  and  long  for  rest. 


22  In  the  Morning. 


IN   THE   MORNING. 

WAS  morn, 

And  day  was  born. 
Bright  in  the  west  the  stars 

still  burned, 

But  ever,  as  the  great  earth  turned, 
The  eastern  mountain-tops  grew  dark 
Against  the  rosy  heaven  —  and  hark  ! 
A  single  note  from  flute-toned  thrush 
Drops  downward  through  the  twilight  hush ; 
Half  praise,  half  prayer,  I  heard  the  song  : 

"  Oh,  sweet,  sweet, 
Oh,  life  is  sweet,  and  joy  is  long  ! " 

The  sun 

Touched  one  by  one 
The  firs  along  the  distant  crest,  — 
A  silent  host,  with  lance  at  rest ; 


In  the  Morning.  23 

Flashed  all  the  world  with  jewels  rare. 
Quivered  with  joy  the  maiden-hair 
Beside  the  brook  that  downward  sprang 
And  rippling  o'er  its  mosses,  sang 
With  silvery  laugh  the  same  glad  song : 

"  Oh,  sweet,  sweet, 
Oh,  life  is  sweet,  and  joy  is  long  !  " 

When  lo  ! 

Swift,  to  and  fro, 

A  sombre  shadow  crossed  its  path, 
Deep  thunders  rolled  in  awful  wrath, 
The  thrush  beneath  the  fir-trees  crept, 
The  maiden-hair  bowed  low  and  wept ; 
The  heavens  were  black,  the  earth  was  gray, 
The  hills  all  blanched  in  the  spectral  day, — 
The  night-wind  rose,  and  wailed  this  song : 

"  Oh,  long,  long, 
Oh,  joy  is  fleeting,  life  so  long  ! " 

Behold, 
A  shaft  of  gold 

Shot  through  the  wrack  of  cloud  and  storm, 
The  heart  of  heaven  beat  quick  and  warm  ; 


24  ///  the  Morning. 

From  bird  and  stream,  with  myriad  tongue, 
The  glad  day  carolled,  laughed,  and  sung. 
T  was  morning  still !    Her  tear-drops  bright 
The  maiden-hair  raised  to  the  light ; 
I  heard,  half  prayer,  half  praise,  the  song  : 

"  Oh,  sweet,  sweet, 
Oh,  life  is  sweet,  and  joy  is  long  !  " 


Marigold.  25 


MARIGOLD. 

ARIGOLD,  marigold,  wi'  thy  wee 

cup  o'  gold, 
What  is  it  mak's  thee  sae  bonnie 

an'  gay? 
Sunshine  has  drappit,  an'  filled  up  my  cup  o' 

gold 
Fu'  to  the  brim  wi'  the  licht  o'  the  day. 

Marigold,  marigold,  surely  ye  canna  hold 
A'  the  sweet  sunshine  'at  draps  frae  the 
sky! 

Nay,  I  Ve  a  muckle  o'  licht  'at  I  winna  hold, 
Saved  up  for  you  an'  for  ithers  to  try. 

Marigold,  marigold,  stan'in'  there  a'  sae  bold, 
What's   in   thy   een,  'at   mak's    'em   sae 

bright  ? 
I  keep  'em  wide  open,  stan'in'  here  a'  sae 

bold, 
Luikin'  at  heaven  frae  mornin'  to  nicht. 


26  In  the  Morning. 

Marigold,  marigold,  bairnie  wi'  cup  o'  gold, 
What's   i'    thy   hert,   'at  mak's  thee  sae 
strang  ? 

Trust  i'  the  One  'at  gave  me  my  cup  o'  gold 
Lattin'  Him  love  me,  a'  the  day  lang. 


"Seventeen,  Eighteen!"         27 


"SEVENTEEN,    EIGHTEEN,    MAID'S 
A-WAITING  ! " 

IGHTEEN  years  ago  the  sunshine 
Laughed  to  find  a  baby  face ; 
Laughed  to   see    the    blue    eyes 
sober, 

In  that  golden,  glad  October, 

Softly  kissed  the  wisps  of  hair, 

Softly  kissed,  and  lingered  there, 

Like  an  answer  to  a  prayer, 

Like  a  whispered  benediction, 

Token  bright  of  heavenly  grace. 

Standing  on  life's  sunlit  threshold, 

Gazing  forth  with  eyes  of  blue 

On  the  great  round  world  before  her, 

On  the  kind  skies  brooding  o'er  her,  — 

From  the  baby  hair  the  light 

Never  has  departed  quite  ; 


28  In  the  Morning. 

Still  it  lingers,  pure  and  bright. 
Yes,  the  little  maid  is  waiting, 
With  a  purpose  grand  and  true ; 

Waiting  for  whate'er  the  Father 

Calls  His  child  to  do  and  bear; 

Waiting,  as  a  thirsty  flower 

Waits  the  morning  dew  and  shower. 

Summers  come  and  summers  go, 

Sparrows  flutter  to  and  fro, 

Autumn  breezes  murmur  low ; 

"  Seventeen,  eighteen,  Maidie  's  waiting, 

With  the  sunshine  in  her  hair  ! " 


To  M ,  on  her  Birthday.       29 


TO  M ,  ON   HER  BIRTHDAY. 

WITH    A    CHESS-BOARD. 

OUR  turn  to  move  again,  dear, 

I'  the  gude  auld  game  ca'd  Life  ; 
It's   a   warstle    o'   joy  an'  pain, 

dear, 
A  mixin'  o'  lauchter  an'  strife. 

An'  I  fain  wad  be  yer  knight,  dear, 

To  serve  ye  the  livelong  day ; 
Ready  in  armor  to  fight,  dear, 

To  live  or  to  dee,  as  ye  say. 

Near  at  han'  i'  the  gloamin'  I  'd  bide,  dear, 

I'  saddle  at  gray  o'  dawn  — 
Na,  na,  I  'm  no  worthy  to  ride,  dear, 

Lat  me  be  the  White  Queen's  pawn  ! 


3O  In  the  Morning. 


"  YOURS 


OURS  truly,"  she  signs  the  note  ; 

ah,  me  ! 
How  little  she  dreams  what  that 

would  be 

To  him  who,  trembling,  reads  the  line,  — 
What  if,  indeed,  she  were  truly  mine  ! 

What  visions  those  two  dear  words  can  bring 
To  the  lonely  heart  that  is  hungering 
For  a  single  touch  of  her  dainty  hand, 
One  swift,  shy  glance  he  could  understand, 

And  know  that  the  formal  greeting  sent 
But  half  concealed  what  the  writer  meant,  — 
That  she  gave,  throughout  the  eternities, 
Her  own  sweet  self,  to  be  truly  his  ! 


"Yours  Truly."  31 

There,  there  !  —  that  fire,  how  it  smokes  — 

what,  tears? 
I  '11  answer  her  letter  — 

"  Dear  Friend,  I  Ve  fears 
Your  kind  invitation  I  can't  accept ;  still 
I  '11  come  if  it  '*s  possible. 

Yours  truly,  WILL." 


32  In  the  Morning. 


A   SERMON    BY   A   LAY   PREACHER. 

HE  morning  of  Sabbath ;  a  city  at 

rest, 
But  waking  serenely  and  donning 

its  best, 

For  the  warm  March  sun  already  is  high. 
Above,  the  arch  of  a  white-blue  sky ; 
Brown  earth,  with  a  touch  of  green,  below ; 
Elm-boughs,  uptost  with  a  lift  superb ; 
The  melting  ice  and  grimy  snow 
Playing  meadow  from  curb  to  curb, 
With  small  mud-rills  in  place  of  brooks, 
And  a  sewer  for  sea  ! 

Ah,  hold,  my  friend, 
I  grant  how  childish-foolish  it  looks, 
But  perhaps  they  Ve  faith  for  the  very  end,  — 
For  streams  and  sewers,  greatest  and  least, 
Find  ocean  at  last,  in  the  misty  East. 


A  Sermon  by  a  Lay  Preacher.     33 

The  good  people  all  are  off  to  the  churches, 
While  I,  left  here  in  the  idlest  of  lurches, 
Must  seek  a  preacher  to  preach  me  a  sermon, 
Ordained  with  open-air  dews  of  Hermon ; 
A  discourse  conservative,  grave,  edifying, 
And  —  come,  sir,  no  laughing  !     I  really  am 

trying 

To  find,  if  I  can,  the  road  steep  and  narrow ; 
Ah,  here  he  comes,  flying,  a  straw  in  his  bill ! 
I  '11  beg  him  take  pulpit ;  now  hear,  if  you 

will, 
A  sermon  preached  by  a  sparrow. 

"  My  text  "  —  hear  the  bird  !  —  "  I  take 
From  the  street,"  —  that's   better,  —  "and 

make 

Application  as  follows  : 
Down  there  where  my  comrades  are  basking, 
There 's  food  to  be  had  for  the  asking,  — 
Understand  me,  —  no  shirking, 
Our  asking  means  working,  — 

Each  swallows 

The  meal  that 's  laid  on  his  plate, 
Content  with  enough.     There  's  my  mate, 
3 


34  In  the  Morning. 

Her  feathers  a-fluff  in  the  sun. 

That  brownest,  prettiest  one  — 

Your  pardon  !     I  ought  to  be  preaching. 

This,  sir,  is  the  gist  of  my  teaching : 

We  sparrows  take  things  as  they  come, 

From  four  A.  M.  until  six, 

We  work  (using  straw  without  bricks)  ; 

We  stop  now  and  then  for  a  crumb 

Thrown  down  by  a  child ;  full  of  cheer, 

We  twitter  throughout  the  whole  year, 

Investing  in  no  loans  of  trouble 

Where  the  borrower  always  pays  double." 

But  your  text  was  the  Street,  my  good  bird. 
This  sounds  like  the  Bible  !  — 

"  I  Ve  heard 

That  life  was  the  same,  sir,  in  each ; 
And,  though  you  want  me  to  preach, 
You  '11  find  that  men,  fowls,  and  book, 

If  you  look, 

Are  all  connected  together,  — 
In  short,  are  birds  of  a  feather ; 
And  from  a  genuine  sermon 
You  '11  learn,  sir,  —  this  I  'm  firm  on,  — 


A  Sermon  by  a  Lay  Preacher.     35 

The  same  Hand  guides  and  governs  all 
Which  holds  us  sparrows  when  we  fall." 

No  more.     Before  I  could  even  remind  him 
Of  lack  of  an  adequate  exhortation, 
Proper  pauses,  and  peroration, 
He  was  off,  his  straw  streaming  far  behind 
him. 

His  advice  —  well,  certainly  not  very  new, 
Yet  perhaps  worth  trying,   I  think  —  don't 
you? 


36  In  the  Morning. 


IN   SOMNO  VERITAS. 

DREAMED  that  I  sat  in  my 

chamber 

And  watched  the  dancing  light 
Of  the  blaze  upon  my  hearthstone, 
And  the  red  brands,  glowing  bright. 

I  listened  to  the  rustle 

Of  the  flames  that  rose  and  fell, 
And  I  dreamed  I  heard  a  whisper, 

A  voice  I  knew  full  well. 

The  room  no  more  was  lonely, 
A  Presence  sweet  was  there, 

A  girlish  figure,  standing, 
Beside  my  own  arm-chair. 


In  Somno  Veritas.  37 

I  dreamed  I  spoke,  and  trembling 
Lest  she  should  prove  to  be 

The  creature  of  a  vision, 
I  bade  her  sit  by  me.  , 

Her  grave  brown  eyes  she  lifted, 
Her  dear  hand  placed  in  mine,  — • 

The  air  was  sweet  with  incense 
Of  odorous  birch  and  pine,  — 

And  as  we  watched  together 
Those  eager,  dancing  flames, 

We  talked  of  days  forgotten, 
And  spoke  our  childish  names. 

I  dreamed  that  heaven  seemed  nearer, 

The  skies  a  lovelier  blue, 
Then  —  was  it  still  a  vision  ?  — 

I  dreamed  my  dream  came  true  ! 


In  the  Morning. 


THALATTA. 

AR  over  the  billows  unresting  forever 
She  flits,  my  white  bird  of  the  sea, 
Now    skyward,    now    earthward, 

storm-drifted,  but  never 
A  wing-beat  nearer  to  me. 

With  eye  soft  as  death  or  the  mist-wreaths 
above  her 

She  timidly  gazes  below ; 
Oh,  never  had  sea-bird  a  man  for  her  lover, 

And  little  recks  she  of  his  woe. 

One  sweet,  startled  note  of  amazement  she 
utters, 

One  white  plume  floats  downward  to  me  ; 
Far  over  the  billows  a  snowy  wing  flutters  — 

Night  —  darkness  —  alone  with  the  sea. 


Unknown. 


39 


UNKNOWN. 


HERE  'S  a  star  a-light  in  the  gloam 

ing, 

A  gleam  in  the  skies  above  ; 
There  's  a  flower  at  rest  on  her  bosom,  — 
On  the  heart  of  her  I  love. 


What  says  the  star  of  the  twilight  ? 

What  is  the  song  of  the  flower  ? 
A  cloud  has  covered  the  star-beam  ; 

The  blossom  lived  but  an  hour. 


Nay,  't  is  the  infinite  heaven, 
The  depth  beyond,  that  speak  ; 

'T  is  the  heart  that  throbs  'neath  the  blossom, 
Not  the  lip  nor  the  fair  white  cheek. 


40  In  the  Morning. 

The  voice  of  the  heavens  is  tender, 

Its  whisper  is  fond  and  low ; 
But  the  voice  of  the  heart  that  is  throbbing  — 

Its  message  I  cannot  know. 


My  Cross.  41 


MY  CROSS. 

NLY  a  tiny  cross ; 

She  plucked  it  from  a  mountain  fir, 
And  wreathing    it    in   soft,  gray 

moss, 

Gave  it  in  memory  of  her,  — 
Yet  —  't  is  a  cross  ! 

Only  a  soft,  gray  cross ; 
But,  half-concealed,  full  many  a  thorn 
Lay  waiting  there,  beneath  the  moss, 
To  pierce  the  bosom  where  't  is  worn, 

This  wee,  sweet  cross. 

Only  a  thorny  cross, 
Unconscious  of  the  pain  it  gives  ; 
Lifeless  the  fir,  faded  the  moss, 
Yet,  while  the  hand  that  plucked  them  lives, 

It  is  my  cross. 


42  In  the  Morning. 


A   VALENTINE. 

F  but  the  furry  catkin  small 
Could  speak  with  gentle  voice 
And  bid  the  sad,  Rejoice  ! 
A  pussy-willow  should  be  all 
My  valentine. 

If  but  the  golden  daffodil, 
With  many  a  cheerful  word, 
Could  tell  what  it  hath  heard 

By  meadow,  wood,  or  murmuring  rill, 
It  should  be  mine. 

If  but  the  valley-lilies  pure 
Could  whisper  in  thine  ear 
A  message  thou  wouldst  hear, 

Of  One  whose  promises  are  sure, 
Whose  love  divine, 


A  Valentine.  43 

Such  flowers  my  valentine  should  be. 

Yet  sought  I  none  of  those,  — 

Only  one  crimson  rose 
To  bear  its  Maker's  heart  to  thee,  — 
Lo,  it  is  thine  ! 


44  In  the  Morning. 


WHITE   PINK. 

HE  maiden  left  a  timid  kiss 
Upon  the  mossy  stone  ; 
Her  lover  true,  the  maiden  knew, 
Would  seek  and  find  his  own. 

The  lover  never  came  again, 

Nor  guessed  the  woe  he  wrought ; 

Day  after  day  neglected  lay 
The  maiden's  kiss,  unsought. 

At  length,  upspringing  from  the  moss 
Through  kindly  sun  and  shower, 

Its  petals  fair  unfolded  there 
This  gentle,  snow-white  flower. 


Aprille. 


45 


APRILLE. 


PRILLE,  alacke ! 

With  sunnie  laugh  her  snow-white 

cloke  flung  backe, 
And  gailie  cast  aside  ; 
Then  cryed, 

With  little  wilfulle  gustes  of  raine, 
Because  she  could  not  have  her  cloke  againe. 


46  In  the  Morning. 


MAY. 

VER  the  hilltop  and  down  in  the 

meadow-grass 
Heaven  like  dew  on  the  waking 

earth  lies  : 

Part  of  it,  dear,  is  the  blue  of  these  violets  ; 
Best  of  it  all  I  find  in  your  eyes. 


August.  47 


AUGUST. 

UGUST,  the  month  of  virgins,  is  at 

hand. 
Shrill-voiced,    the    locust     pipes 

a-field ; 

With  flash  of  burnished  shield 
Hovers  the  dragon-fly  athwart  the  stream  ; 
Like  sea-bird  slumbering  in  mid-day  dream 
Floats  one  white  cloud  above  the  drowsy  land. 
August,  the  month  of  virgins,  is  at  hand. 

Silent  upon  the  shore  sits  Dorothy,  — 

Scarce  heeds  the  softly  murmurous  tide, 
Fair  sky,  nor  aught  beside  ; 
Gazing  afar,  half  troubled,  half  content, 
Awaits  with  folded  hands  a  message  sent 
Across  the  gleaming,  restless,  longing  sea,  — 
Silent  upon  the  shore  sits  Dorothy. 


48  In  the  Morning. 


CARLO'S   CHRISTMAS. 

AY  I  come  to  your  side,  dear  Mis 
tress  ? 

I  am  only  a  dog,  you  see, 
And  the  Christmas  joy  and  gladness 
Perhaps  are  not  meant  for  me. 

Yet  I  think  the  Master  would  let  me, 

If  I  only  begged  to  eat 
The  crumbs  that  fell  from  His  table, 

And  to  lie  at  His  blessed  feet. 

I  have  heard  the  wonderful  story 
Of  the  sleeping  flocks  by  night, 

Of  Bethlehem  and  the  angels 

And  the  one  Star,  shining  bright ; 


Carlo's  Christmas.  49 

And  I  Ve  longed,  when  I  heard  the  story, 

A  shepherd-dog  to  be, 
For  then  it  might  seem  that  Christmas 

Was  partly  meant  for  me. 

But  I  only  look  up  at  the  Master 
With  a  life  that  is  veiled  and  dumb, 

Content  to  share  with  the  sparrow 
His  love,  and  the  falling  crumb. 

May  I  lie  at  your  feet,  dear  Mistress  ? 

I  am  only  a  dog,  you  see, 
But  if  I  may  serve  you  and  love  you, 

Why,  that  is  Christmas  for  me  ! 


5o  In  the  Morning. 


THE  SUN   WAS   RED   AND    LOW. 

N  her  palace  porch  a  Princess  — 
The  sun  was  red  and  low  — 
At  her  feet  a  subject  kneeling  — 
Sweet,  far-off  bells  were  pealing  — 

He  rose  and  turned  to  go. 
"  I  give  you  my  love  !  "  quoth  the  Princess 
To  the  subject,  bending  low. 

Ah,  Goldenhair,  what  hast  thou  given  !  — 

The  sun  is  round  and  red  — 
As  thou  standest  there  in  the  portal, 
A  Princess'  love,  to  a  mortal !  — 

The  bells  toll  for  the  dead  — 
A  kiss  from  the  lips  of  the  Princess, 

But  never  a  word  she  said. 


The  Sun  was  Red  and  Low.       5 1 

Still  radiant  stood  the  Princess  — 

The  bells  no  longer  tolled  — 
At  her  feet  the  subject  kneeling  — 
The  far-off  chimes  were  pealing 

Their  sweet  notes  as  of  old  — 
"  I  give  you  my  love  ! "  quoth  the  Princess  ; 

And  the  sun  was  a  crown  of  gold. 


52  In  the  Morning. 


TWO   VISIONS. 

VISION  of  Morn,  —  the  dew 's  on 

the  grass, 
The  ocean  's  aflame,  and  a  sweet 

fisher-lass 

On  its  bosom's  unrest  is  afloat ; 
The  sunlight  is  fair  on  her  shy,  upturned  face, 
As  she  dips  the  bright  oars  with  the  daintiest 

grace, 

And  the  prow  of  her  snowy-white  boat 
Its  way  urges  softly  through  each  foaming 

crest, 

Like  sea-bird,  wings  fluttering,  closing  to  rest ; 
In  her  eyes  shines  the  light  of  the  glad  day, 

new-born,  — 
The  pure,  gentle  Spirit  of  Morn. 

A  Vision  of  Night,  —  the  silvery  stars 
Alight  in  the  East,  ere  its  golden  bars 


Two  Visions.  53 

Have  imprisoned  the  slumberous  sun ; 
The  sea  hoarsely  breathing,  the  wind  all  astir, 
The  sparrow  crouched  low  in  the  boughs  of 
the  fir, 

But  she,  the  Beautiful  One, 
Is  awake,  oh,  awake,  with  her  glorious  eyes 
Star-lighted  and  deep  as  the  shadowy  skies, 
O'er  the  mist  of  her  draperies,  fleecy  and 
white, 

The  radiant  Spirit  of  Night. 


54  In  the  Morning. 


MY  CREED. 

HAT  is  my  creed,  you  ask,  dear? 

I  look  in  your  grave  brown  eyes 
And  believe  —  in  your  womanly 

sweetness, 
Your  purity,  clear  as  the  skies. 

I  Ve  faith  —  in  your  true,  brave  heart,  dear, 
Your  life,  with  its  joys  and  tears  ; 

And  far  beyond  storm-mist  and  sunshine, 
Beyond  weary  days  and  long  years, 

j  nope  —  in  a  Love  that  is  waiting 

With  infinite  tenderness  there 
To  comfort  us  both,  you  and  me,  dear, 

For  the  burden  He  gives  us  to  bear. 


Again?  55 


AGAIN? 

IDE  by  side,  from  their  misty  home, 

Fell  two  bright  drops  of  rain  ; 
The  storm-wind  hurled  them  far 

apart, 
Never  to  meet  again. 

Hand  in  hand  stood  two  dear  friends, 
Hearts  wrung  with  sudden  pain  ; 

The  storm-wind  hurled  them  far  apart,  — 
Never  to  meet  again  ? 


In  tbe  Morning. 


PANSY. 

ITTLE  flower  with  golden  heart, 
Strange,  sweet  mystery  thou  art. 
Who  can  tell  the  thoughts  that  lie 

In  the  depths  of  thy  dark  eye  ! 

Dost  thou  dream  of  other  lands, 

Waving  palm-groves,  burning  sands, 

Days  of  languor,  twilights  tender, 

Glorious  nights  of  Orient  splendor? 

Shy,  sweet  type  of  lovers'  bliss, 

Art  thou  an  immortal  kiss 

By  some  fair  sultana  breathed, 

To  all  faithful  love  bequeathed 

By  the  tiny-sandalled  bride, 

Velvet-lipped,  and  starry-eyed? 


Golden-rod.  5  7 


GOLDEN-ROD. 

'ER  the  dusty  roadside  bending 

With  its  wondrous  weight  of  gold, 
Can  it  be  the  rod  enchanted 
Midas  used  in  days  of  old  ? 

Hush  !  perchance  it  is  a  princess 

In  the  sunlight  nodding  there, 
Spell-bound  by  the  wicked  fairy,  — 

Sleepy  little  Golden- Hair  ! 

Nay,  it  is  Belshazzar's  banquet, 
Where  the  drowsy  monarch  sups 

With  his  swarm  of  courtiers,  drinking 
From  the  sacred,  golden  cups. 

See,  I  pluck  his  tiny  kingdom  — 

Long  ago  it  was  decreed  — 
And  divide  it,  dear,  between  us, 

You  the  Persian,  I  the  Mede. 


58  In  tbe  Morning. 


TO  MARGARET,  ON  ST.  VALENTINE'S 
DAY. 

WITH   A   ROSE. 

]ARGARET,  pearl  of  dainty  pearls, 

Fairest  of  dimpled  daisies, 
My  rose  its  velvet  sail  unfurls 
To  bear  thee  love  and  praises. 
It  drifts  from  port,  no  longer  mine  — 
Bring  back,  wee  boat,  my  Valentine  ! 


To  a  Very  Small  Pine.          59 


TO   A   VERY   SMALL   PINE. 

HAT  song  is  in  thy  heart, 

Thou  puny  tree  ? 
Weak  pinelet  that  thou  art, 
Trembling  at  every  shock, 
Thy  feebleness  doth  mock 
Thy  high  degree. 

When  rage  o'er  sea  and  land 

The  tempests  wild, 
How  canst  thou  e'er  withstand 
Their  might,  or  baffle  them 
With  that  frail,  quivering  stem, 
Poor  forest  child  ? 

Nay,  wherefore  scoff  at  thy 

Dimensions  small? 
For,  folded  close,  I  spy 


6o  /;/  tbe  Morning. 

A  tiny  bud,  scarce  seen 
Within  its  cradle  green  ; 
And  after  all, 

In  ages  yet  to  come 

Thy  stately  form, 
No  longer  dwarfed  and  dumb, 
But  chanting  to  the  breeze 
Sublime,  sweet  melodies, 
Shall  breast  the  storm  ! 

Beneath  thine  outstretched  arms 

Shall  children  rest ; 
While,  safe  from  all  alarms, 
Within  thy  shadows  deep 
Wild  birds  their  tryst  shall  keep 
And  weave  their  nest. 

May  such  a  lot  be  his 

Who  tends  thee  now  ! 
With  heavenly  harmonies 
Serene  amid  his  foes, 
Outstretching  as  he  grows 
In  root  and  bough. 


Mosses.  6 1 


MOSSES. 

HILDREN  of  lowly  birth, 

Pitifully  weak ; 

Humblest  creatures  of  the  wood, 
To  your  peaceful  brotherhood 
Sweet  the  promise  that  was  given 
Like  the  dew  from  heaven  : 
"  Blessed  are  the  meek, 
They  shall  inherit  the  earth." 

Thus  are  the  words  fulfilled  : 

Over  all  the  earth 

Mosses  find  a  home  secure. 

On  the  desolate  mountain  crest, 

Avalanche-ploughed  and  tempest-tilled, 

The  quiet  mosses  rest ; 

On  shadowy  banks  of  streamlets  pure, 

Kissed  by  the  cataract's  shifting  spray, 

For  the  bird's  small  foot  a  soft  highway  ; 


62  In  the  Morning. 

For  the  weary  and  sore  distressed 
In  hopeless  quest 
Of  a  fabulous  golden  fleece, 
Little  sermons  of  peace. 
Blessed  children  of  lowly  birth  — 
Thus  they  inherit  the  earth. 


The  Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross.    63 


THE  MOUNT  OF  THE  HOLY  CROSS. 

OWN  the  rocky  slopes  and  passes 

Of  the  everlasting  hills 
Murmur  low  the  crystal  waters 
Of  a  thousand  tiny  rills  ; 

Bearing  from  a  lofty  glacier 

To  the  valley,  far  below, 
Health  and  strength  for  every  creature,  — 

'T  is  for  them  "  He  giveth  snow." 

On  thy  streamlet's  brink  the  wild  deer 
Prints  with  timid  foot  the  moss  ; 

To  thy  side  the  sparrow  nestles,  — 
Mountain  of  the  Holy  Cross  ! 

Pure  and  white  amid  the  heavens 
God  hath  set  His  glorious  sign  : 

Symbol  of  a  world's  deliverance, 
Promise  of  a  life  divine. 


64  In  the  Morning. 


CHRISTMAS   SNOW. 

HAT  so  merry  as  snow  ? 

Gleefully  robing  the  grave  old 

town 

In  garb  fantastic  of  ermine  and  down ; 
Whispering  at  the  window  pane, 
Then  spreading  its  wee,  white  wings  again 
Till,  alighting  at  last  with  noiseless  feet, 
On  tiptoe  in  the  muffled  street 
It  dances  to  and  fro. 

What  so  pure  as  snow  ? 
Flakes  like  the  thoughts  of  a  little  child, 
Undefiling  and  undefiled ; 
Wonderful,  starry  mysteries 
Falling  softly  out  of  the  skies, 
Decking  with  white  the  bare,  brown  earth 
In  memory  of  the  holy  birth 

At  Bethlehem,  long  ago. 


The  "Creation.1'  65 


THE    "CREATION." 

INTER   is    past.      The   changing, 

softened  sky, 

The  robin's  cheery  note,  the  sea- 
bird's  cry, 

The  willow  pussies  peeping  from  their  nest ; 
The  modest  sparrow,  with  his  dappled  breast, 
Flitting  beneath  the  lilacs  by  the  wall ; 
The  budding  tree,  the  tender  grass,  with  all 
Its  tiny  hands  uplifted  to  the  sun, 
Who  reaches  down  and  clasps  them,  one  by 

one ; 

The  mayflower  sleeping  on  her  snowy  bed, 
And  while  the  night  winds  murmur,  "  She  is 

dead  ! " 

Her  shy  sweet  eyes  unclosing  joyfully 
As  if  she  heard  the  "  Talitha,  cumi  !  " 
The  stream,  escaping  from  the  winter's 

wrath, 
And  leaping  swiftly  down  its  rocky  path, 


66  ///  the  Morning. 

Or  pausing  in  some  shadowy,  foam-flecked 

pool, 

Among  the  nodding  ferns  and  mosses  cool ; 
The  floating  clouds,  the  fragrant  earth,  the 

sea, 

With  its  low  whispers  of  eternity,  — 
All  join  in  one  grand  harmony  of  praise 
To  Him,  Creator,  Lord,  Ancient  of  Days. 


The  Happy  Valley.  67 


THE   HAPPY  VALLEY. 

AR  away  there  sleeps  a  valley, 
Cradled  by  the  mighty  hills, 
Lulled  to  rest  by  sweetest  music, 
Whispering  winds  and  laughing  rills. 

Naught  it  knows  of  stormy  passion, 
Pestilence,  or  war's  alarms  ; 

O'er  it  graze  the  peaceful  cloud-flocks, 
And  the  everlasting  arms 

Of  the  mountains,  underneath  it, 
Fold  it  closely  to  their  breast, 

While  at  nightfall,  on  its  bosom, 
Golden  moonbeams  softly  rest. 


Seasons  come  and  seasons  go,  — 
Summer  heats  and  winter's  snow, 
Spring's  surprises,  autumn's  peace, 
Indian-summer's  golden  fleece, 


68  In  the  Morning. 

Purple-bordered,  crimson-clasped, 
By  a  hand  already  grasped 
That  hath  costlier  treasures  brought 
Than  the  wandering  Argonaut. 


A  solemn  hush  is  in  the  air. 
Happy  voices  die  away  ; 
Dark-robed  fir-trees  murmur,  Pray  !  - 
Pray  for  Summer,  young  and  fair. 
Crosses  wave, 
Souls  to  save, 
Chant  a  requiem  o'er  her  grave. 

Dead  !  the  weeping  autumn  wind 
Shrouded  her  in  fallen  leaves ; 
Dead  !  amid  her  golden  sheaves,  — 
pray  —  ye  that  are  left  behind  ! 
Crosses  wave, 
Souls  to  save, 
Chant  a  requiem  o'er  her  grave. 

Pray  ye,  pray  !  for  Summer  lies 
Dead,  upon  the  icy  ground ; 
Heap  for  her  a  snow-white  mound, 

While  the  winter  wind  replies  : 


The  Happy  Valley.  69 

Crosses  wave, 
Souls  to  save, 
Chant  a  requiem  o'er  her  grave. 


Sweetly,  through  the  low,  sad  murmur 

Of  the  fir-trees'  requiem, 
Flows  a  song  of  hope  and  gladness, 

Strong,  triumphant  over  them. 

Summer  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth  ! 

Soon  the  maiden  shall  arise, 
And  the  world  again  be  gladdened 

With  the  sunshine  of  her  eyes. 

Then  the  valley,  too,  shall  waken 
From  the  pale  trance  of  her  night ; 

Breezes  soft  shall  kiss  her  forehead, 
Radiant  in  the  morning  light. 

Years  may  come  and  go,  but  ever 

Shall  the  valley  rest  among 
Mountain  mists  and  golden  moonbeams  ; 

While  the  hills,  with  myriad  tongue, 


D  In  the  Morning. 

Lullabys  shall  croon  above  it, 

Streamlets  laugh,  and  harebells  chime, 
Fir-trees  murmur,  cloud-lambs  wander, 

Storms  chant  harmonies  sublime. 

And  for  those  who  love  the  valley 
Peace  and  rest  are  waiting  there, 

With  the  seasons  onward  moving, 
Each  more  gladsome,  each  more  fair. 


Dollie's  Spring. 


DOLLIE'S   SPRING, 

EEP  within  a  mountain  forest 

Breezes  soft  are  whispering 
Through  the  dark-robed  firs  and 

hemlocks, 
Over  Dollie's  Spring. 

Swiftly  glides  the  tiny  streamlet, 

While  its  laughing  waters  sing 
Sweetest  song  in  all  the  woodland, 

"  I  —  am  —  Dollie's  —  Spring  !  " 

In  the  dim  wood's  noontide  shadow 

Nod  the  ferns,  and  glistening 
With  a  thousand  diamond  dew-drops, 

Bend  o'er  Dollie's  Spring. 

Shyly  on  its  mossy  border 

Blue-eyed  Dollie,  lingering, 
Views  the  sweet  face  in  the  crystal 

Depths  of  Dollie's  Spring. 


72  In  the  Morning. 

Years  shall  come  and  go,  and  surely 
To  the  little  maiden  bring 

Trials  sore  and  joys  uncounted, 
While,  by  Dollie's  Spring, 

Still  the  firs  shall  lift  their  crosses 
Heavenward,  softly  murmuring 

Prayers  for  her,  where'er  she  wander, 
Far  from  Dollie's  Spring. 


The  Third  Day.  73 


THE  THIRD   DAY. 

LINES   SENT   WITH   A    FOSSIL    FROND. 

ANY  thousand  years  ago 

God  looked  down  and  bade  me 

grow; 

Why  it  was,  I  never  knew  — 
Now  I  see  it  was  for  you  ! 


THE   SEVENTH   DAY. 

SENT  WITH  A  CLUSTER  OF  MAIDEN-HAIR   FERNS. 

DOUBTLESS  you  are  much  surprised 
That  we  are  not  fossilized, 
Geologic,  or  antique,  — 
Only  little  ferns  and  meek. 
Yet  we  grew  at  His  command, 
Touched  by  that  same  loving  Hand 


74  In  the  Morning. 

Which  the  day  from  night  divided, 

Planets  on  their  courses  guided, 

Set  on  high  the  firmament, 

Alps  from  Alps  asunder  rent, 

All  the  earth  with  life  invested ; 

And  He  made  us  while  He  —  "rested." 


Fern  Life.  75 


FERN    LIFE. 
I.   ITS  HOME. 

jjITHIN  a  shadowy  ravine 

Far  hidden  from  the  sun, 
A  fern  its  wee,  soft  fronds  of  green 
Unfolded,  one  by  one. 

From  morn  till  eve  no  twittering  flock 

Nor  insect  hovered  nigh  : 
Its  cradle  was  the  lichened  rock, 

The  storm  its  lullaby. 

By  night  above  the  dark  abyss 

The  stars  their  vigils  kept, 
And  white-winged  mists  stooped  low  to  kiss 

The  baby,  while  it  slept. 

fS^-El^^ 

f>>     ()f    Tro-*^ 


^ 

[U2U7EESIT7J 


In  the  Morning. 


II.   AT  SCHOOL. 

WEEKS  passed  away ;  the  tiny  fern 
Frond  after  frond  unfurled, 

And  waited  patiently  to  learn 
Its  mission  in  the  world. 

By  fir-trees  draped  in  mosses  gray 
The  willing  fern  was  taught, 

And  once  each  day  a  single  ray 
Its  sunny  greeting  brought. 


III.   ASLEEP. 

HER  cradle  songs  the  North  Wind  sung 
And  whispered  far  and  wide, 

Until  a  thousand  harebells  swung 
Along  the  mountain  side. 

She  sung  of  far-off  twilight  land, 

Moss-muffled  forests  dim, 
And,  to  her  mountain  organ  grand. 

The  aged  pine-trees'  hymn. 


Fern  Life.  77 


IV.   A  CRADLE-SONG  OF  THE  NIGHT  WIND. 

THE  pines  have  gathered  upon  the  hill 
To  watch  for  the  old-new  moon ; 

I  hear  their  murmuring  —  "  Hush,  be  still ! 
'T  is  coming  —  coming  soon  !  " 

The  brown  thrush  sings  to  his  meek  brown 
wife 

Who  broods  below  on  her  nest : 
"  Of  all  the  world  and  of  all  my  life 

T  is  you  I  love  the  best ! " 

But  the  baby  moon  is  wide  awake, 
And  its  eyes  are  shining  bright ; 

The  pines  in  their  arms  this  moon  must  take 
And  rock  him  to  sleep  to-night. 


V.   THE  CHIME. 

SOFTLY  swinging  to  and  fro, 
Harebells  tinkle,  sweet  and  low  ! . 
All  the  world  is  fast  asleep, 
Birds  and  folks  and  woolly  sheep  ; 


78  In  the  Morning. 

Far  above  us  towers  the  mountain ; 
Far  below,  an  unseen  fountain 
From  its  rocky  cradle  deep, 
Like  a  child,  laughs  in  its  sleep. 
All  our  faces  shyly  hidden, 
As  the  fir-trees  oft  have  bidden, 

Softly  bending,  sweet  notes  blending, 
Moonbeams  climbing, 
Wee  bells  chiming, 
Harebells  tinkle,  star-gleams  twinkle, 
To  and  fro, 
To  and  fro, 
Sweet  —  sweet  and  low. 

VI.  THE  HYMN  OF  THE  NORTHERN  PINES. 

SURE  —  sure  —  sure  — 
Are  the  promises  He  hath  spoken, 
His  word  hath  never  been  broken. 

Pure  —  pure  —  pure  — 
Are  the  thoughts  and  the  hearts  of  His  chosen, 
As  crystals  the  North  Wind  hath  frozen. 

Strong  —  strong  —  strong  — 
Underneath  are  the  arms  everlasting ; 
On  them  our  cares  we  are  casting. 


Fern  Life.  79 

Long  —  long  —  long  — 
Have  we  sung  of  the  life  He  doth  give  us  — 
His  mercy  and  love  shall  outlive  us. 


VII.   AT  LAST. 

FAR  from  its  mountain  home  the  fern 

Has  found  a  resting-place  ; 
A  maiden  has  begun  to  learn 

To  love  its  winsome  face. 

But  when  at  night  the  north  winds  smite 

Against  the  frosty  pane, 
The  fern  is  listening  with  delight 

To  hear  their  voice  again. 

For  in  their  solemn  murmuring 
The  pine-trees  chant  once  more, 

The  harebells  chime,  the  thrushes  sing, 
The  mountain  torrents  roar ; 

Again  the  dark-robed  fir-trees  stand 

About  its  mossy  bed, 
And  hold  aloft  with  trembling  hand 

Their  crosses  o'er  its  head. 


So  In  the  Morning. 


PAUSES   AND    CLAUSES. 

TO    MY    LITTLE   NIECE,    KITTIE. 
[With  a  Maltese  Kitten.] 

ITTIE  MABEL,  will  you  take 
This  gift,  for  the  giver's  sake  ? 
Verse  and  song  and  roundelay 
Will  be  yours  this  merry  day ; 
Mine  are  all  unfit  to  send, 
Tattered  rhymes,  too  poor  to  mend. 

But,  although  I  have  n't  any 

Songs,  my  thoughts  are  swift  and  many. 

All  are  flying  straight  to  you, 

And  your  heart,  so  sweet  and  true, 

I  am  sure,  dear,  won't  decline 

This  small,  furry  Valentine. 


To  M .  81 


TO  M ,  WITH  A  COPY  OF  "  THE 

PETERKIN"  PAPERS." 

BOSTON  girl  prefers  a  set  of  vol 
umes  that  are  uniform, 
In  Syriac,  Chaldaic,  Sanskrit,  Ara 
bic,  or  Cuneiform, 

For  these  will  test  her  paleontological  ability, 
And   not  insult  her  culture  by  superfluous 

facility. 
She  loves  a  scientific  pedant,  or,  to  use  a 

synonyme, 
A  specimen,  with  printed  name  and  label  fair 

to  pin  on  him. 
Alas  !  I  fear  she  will  despise  a  book  without 

a  mystery, 

That  never  once  alludes  to  Art,  or  Mediaeval 
History ; 


82  In  the  Morning. 

But  as  she  is  compelled  each  day  to  recog 
nize  and  meet  her  kin, 

I  trust  she  will  accept  at  least  this  tale  of 
Mrs.  Peterkin. 


Memorial  Poem.  83 


MEMORIAL   POEM. 

READ  AT  THE  ANNUAL   DINNER   OF   THE    BOSTON 
LATIN  SCHOOL  ASSOCIATION,  APRIL  29,  1 8 86. 

LATIN-SCHOOL  poem?  Tvvere 

easy  to  write 
On  a  theme  so  suggestive  an  epic 

at  sight, 

An  ode,  full  of  fire,  or,  if  that  would  n't  do, 
An  Eclogue,  or  even  a  Georgic  or  two, 
With  allusions  to  classical  roots,  and  Greek 

ponies 
Hard  ridden  and  worn  —  I  confess  that  my 

own  is. 

A  poet  could  scarce  fail  of  making  a  hit, 
Inspired  by  the  presence  of  beauty  and  wit  ! 

Alas,  for  the  days  of  our  ancestors  bold, 
When  the  wassail  was  drunk,  brave  stories 
were  told, 


84  In  the  Morning. 

While  the  mirth  of  the  feasters  grew  louder 

and  higher, 
And  the  bard  struck  the  quivering  chords  of 

the  lyre, 

Without  an  apology,  blush,  or  evasion, 
Or  stammering  reference  to  —  "this  occa 
sion," 

As  raising  his  voice  o'er  the  tumult  and  din, 
He  recounted  in  song  all  the  fights  they  'd 
been  in. 

Let  bygones  be  bygones,  the  past  be  the  past ; 
We  live  in  the  world  of  to-day,  and  at  last 
Society  calls  for  less  noise,  more  decorum, 
Remarks   less  akin  to  the  street   than   the 

forum ; 

Nay,  mounting  in  civilization  still  higher, 
The  bard  soon  must  go  —  perhaps  even  the 

lyre  ! 
And  if  things  should  be  ever  at  sixes  and 

sevens, 
There  lies  an  appeal  to  his  Honor  Judge 

Devens.1 

1  Presiding  at  the  Dinner. 


Memorial  Poem.  85 

And  what,  do  you  ask,  is  this  tirade  about  ? 

Why  not,  as  in  Hunting  the  Snark,  "  leave 
that  out "  ? 

Ah,  can  I  forget  why  we  schoolmates  are  here  ? 

How  often  we  laugh  when  we  'd  fain  hide  a 
tear  ! 

The  ripples  are  bright  on  the  waves  of  mid- 
ocean  ; 

Eyes  dance  and  smiles  play  over  depths  of 
emotion ; 

Oh,  dear  Alma  Mater,  be  patient  to-night, 

Our  hearts,  misconstrued,  thou  canst  trans 
late  aright ! 

How  memory  pictures  bright  scenes  to  us 
all!  — 

The  old,  shaky  building,  the  school-room,  the 
hall, 

The  way  the  grim  doctor  read  Greek  verbs 
and  Latin, 

The  desk  where  he  wrote  and  the  chair  that 
he  sat  in, 

His  upraised  forefingers  and  forehead  por 
tentous, 


86  In  the  Morning. 

The  terror  we  felt  when  we  found  that  he 

meant  us ; 
Eyes  gleaming  below  that  great  frontlet  of 

hair,  — 
Ah,  could  we  have  known  of  what  really  was 

there, 
And  fathomed  that  grand   heart,  so  gentle 

and  true, 
Beneath  the  stern  front   that  bent  o'er  me 

and  you  ! 

Those  lessons  —  how  useless  and  tiresome 
they  seemed, 

While  we  "mulled"  over  Caesar,  drew  pic 
tures,  and  dreamed ; 

How  Xenophon's  mighty  Anabasis  came 

To  cloud  our  young  lives,  till  we  hated  his 
name, 

The  characters  playing  strange  pranks  on  the 
pages, 

While  still  we  droned  on,  "  He  —  advanced 
—  thirteen  —  stages." 

We  wished  the  Ten  Thousand  had  ail  broken 
loose 


Memorial  Poem.  87 


Before   they  began   on  their  endless 

fiovs; 
We  preferred  that  they  would  n't  get  on  quite 

so  fast  ; 
We  wished  that  their  leader  had  not  dm- 

/3acr-ed  ; 
But  Xenophon  brought  them  all  safe  to  the 

sea, 
He  got  out  of  the  woods,  and,  at  last,  so  did 

we. 

Did   you   march   on  the  Common?     How 

proud  were  we  then 
To  be  reckoned  in  newspapers  "  two  hun 

dred  men  "  ! 
How  the  uniforms  shone  as  we  wheeled  o'er 

the  grass  — 
No  koh-i-noor  gleams  like  those  buttons  of 

brass  ! 
Our  scabbards  and  sashes  were  artfully  dan 

gled, 

And  if  they  at  times  in  our  ankles  got  tangled, 
The  terror  to  others  was  full  compensation 
For  dangers  attending  our  perambulation. 


88  In  the  Morning. 

Was  it  fun  ?  There  are  those  within  reach 
of  my  words 

Who  remember  when  ploughshares  were 
cleft  into  swords ; 

When  hushed  was  the  voice  of  youth's  laugh 
ter  and  mirth, 

As  the  flag,  broken-winged,  fluttered,  bleed 
ing,  to  earth. 

Are  there  men  who  will  cherish  their  coun 
try's  last  breath  ? 

Are  there  three  hundred  thousand  who  love 
—  to  the  death  ? 

Hark  !  —  the  answering  cry  to  that  agonized 
call- 

And  the  Latin-School  boys  are  the  foremost 
of  all ! 

We  have  proved  we  've  a  banner,  a  country, 
a  God, 

By  thousands  of  arguments  —  under  the  sod  ! 

Who  knows  if  the  dear  boys  who  fell  in  the 
fight 

May  not  hold  their  reunion,  as  we  do,  to 
night  ? 


Memorial  Poem.  89 

From  the  morning-land  fair,  and  a  rest  never 

ending, 
Their  voices,  well-loved,  with  our  own  still 

are  blending ; 
Hark  !  —  can  we  not  hear  the  sweet  echoes 

to-day, 
As  from  camp  grounds  afar  comes  the  soft 

reveille'  ? 

Oh,  soldiers,  still  serving  in  ranks  like  their 

own, 

But  a  little  more  quiet,  more  dignified,  grown, 
Still  fighting  from  morning  till  set  of  the  sun, 
Each  day  new  defeats  or  fresh  victories  won, 
Pressing  onward,  undaunted  still,  shoulder  to 

shoulder, 

With  our  hearts  growing  young  as  our  mus 
kets  grow  older, 
Let  us  take  for  our  motto,  emblazoned  in 

light, 

That  stern  old  command  of  Forward — Guide 
Right! 


9O  In  the  Morning. 


DANDELION. 

DANDELION  in  a  meadow  grew 
Among  the  waving   grass   and 

cowslips  yellow ; 
Dining  on  sunshine,  breakfasting  on  dew, 
He  was  a  right  contented  little  fellow. 

Each  morn  his  golden  head  he  lifted  straight, 
To  catch  the  first  sweet  breath  of  coming 
day; 

Each  evening  closed  his  sleepy  eyes,  to  wait 
Until  the  long,  cool  night  had  passed  away. 

One  afternoon,  in  sad,  unquiet  mood, 

I   paused   beside    this   tiny,    bright-faced 

flower, 

And  begged  that  he  would  tell  me,  if  he  could, 
The  secret  of  his  joy  through  sun  and 
shower. 


Dandelion.  91 

He  looked  at  me  with  open  eyes,  and  said  : 
"  I  know  the   sun  is  somewhere   shining 
clear, 

And  when  I  cannot  see  him  overhead, 
I  try  to  be  a  little  sun,  right  here  ! " 


92  In  the  Morning. 


MARJORIE. 

H,  dear,"  said  Farmer  Brown,  one 

day, 

"  I  never  saw  such  weather  ! 
The  rain  will  spoil  my  meadow  hay 
And  all  my  crops  together." 

His  little  daughter  climbed  his  knee  ; 
"  I  guess  the  sun  will  shine,"  said  she. 

"  But  if  the  sun,"  said  Farmer  Brown, 

"  Should  bring  a  dry  September, 
With  vines  arid  stalks  all  wilted  down, 
And  fields  scorched  to  an  ember —  " 
(t  Why,  then,  't  will  rain,"  said  Marjorie, 
The  little  girl  upon  his  knee. 

"  Ah,  me  ! "  sighed  Farmer  Brown,  that  fall, 
"Now,  what's  the  use  of  living? 


Marjorie.  93 

No  plan  of  mine  succeeds  at  all  —  " 
"  Why,  next  month  comes  Thanksgiving  ! 
And  then,  of  course,"  said  Marjorie, 
"  We  're  all  as  happy  as  can  be." 

"  Well,  what  should  I  be  thankful  for?  " 
Asked  Farmer  Brown.     "  My  trouble 
This  summer  has  grown  more  and  more, 
My  losses  have  been  double, 

I  Ve  nothing  left  —  "  "  Why,  you  Ve  got 

.    me!" 

Said  Marjorie,  upon  his  knee. 


94  In  the  Morning. 


PRIMROSE. 

N  the  meadow,  cool  and  sweet, 
Where   the  cowslips   bathe  ^  their 
feet, 


On  the  banks  of  Scottish  burns, 
Down  among  the  nodding  ferns, 
Where  the  shadows  come  and  go, 
Cheerful  Primrose  loves  to  grow. 

Little  flower  she  is,  and  meek ; 
And  if  she  could  only  speak, 
I  am  sure  her  words  would  be 
Whispered  very  timidly. 
Skylark,  hush  your  joyous  singing, 
Bonnie  harebells,  cease  your  ringing, 
Listen,  listen,  drowsy  bee,  — 
Is  the  Primrose  calling  thee  ? 


Primrose.  95 

Tiny  rootlets  white  and  brown, 
Leaves  as  soft  as  cygnet's  down, 
Fringed  petals,  dainty  pink, 
Peeping  o'er  the  burnie's  brink,  — 
That  is  Primrose,  sweet  and  true, 
And  I  love  her  —  do  not  you? 


In  tbe  Morning. 


CONTENT. 

ITTLE  Herb  Robert,  what  makes 

you  so  pink? 

The  daisy  is  taller  and  whiter." 
"The  sun  came  along,  and,  what  do  you 

think? 
It  kissed  me,  and  so  I  grew  brighter." 

"  Grasshopper,  why  are  you  merry  to-day? " 
"  I  always  am  glad,  if  you  please,  sir, 

Because  I  can  hop  on  the  clover  and  hay, 
Nor  have  to  fly  up  in  the  trees,  sir." 

"  Sea- weed,  poor  creature  !  you  're  left  high 

and  dry, 

The  tide  has  gone  out ;  you  are  dying  !  " 
"  Ah,  no,  I  am  sure  't  will  come  back  by  and 

by. 
I  shall  live,  never  fear ;  I  '11  keep  trying." 


Content.  97 

"Song-sparrow,   how   can   you  sing  all  the 
day?" 

"  Sweet  food  to  my  young  I  am  bringing, 
And  when  I  am  working  for  them,  in  this  way, 

Of  course  I  can  never  help  singing." 

"  Child,  leave  the  hot,  dusty  roadside,  and 

come." 

"  I  'd  go,  for  I  know  that  you  love  me  ; 
But,  please,  I  'd  rather  stay  here,  near  my 

home, 
For  Papa's  in  there,  just  above  me." 


98  In  the  Morning. 


WITH   A  SMALL   LETTER-OPENER. 

TO   W.    B.    W. 


NCE   more   't  is   the   night  before 

Christmas ;  once  more 
The  Christ-child  is  entering  each 

open  door ; 
The  holly-bough   glistens,  the  earth   is  all 

white, 

In  the  jubilant  heavens  the  Star  is  a-light. 
May  I  sit  by  your  hearthstone  once  more,  as 

of  old? 

My  story  —  a  brief  one  —  shall  quickly  be 
told.  

We  bring  you  no  Sevres  nor  Japanese  Kaga, 
But  only  an  innocent  kind  of  a  dagger. 
(Allow  me  a  few  editorial  "  we's," 
The  plural  is  handy  in  rhymes  such  as  these.) 


With  a  Small  Letter-opener.      99 

The  blade  is  no  marvel,  't  is  not  Muramasa  — 
("What's  that?"  No  one  knows.  Ask 

your  daughter,  from  Vassar.) 
Nay,   we    must    admit,   if    perchance    you 

should  ask  us, 
'T  was   forged   in   the   States,   and    not   at 

Damascus. 

Too  slim  for  a  trinket,  too  large  for  a  charm, 
Too  small  for  a  weapon,  too  dull  to  do  harm  ; 
Too  blunt  for  a  bodkin,  of  life  to  deplete  us, 
'T  would  not  even  serve  for  Hamlet's 

quietus. 

Cur  igitur  tibi  gladiolum  dabo  — 
Quemadmodum  hoc  explicare  parabo? 
Sie    konnen    nicht    ganz    die    Verwerrung 

verstehen, 

Ich  will  zum  Puncte  deswegen  nun  gehen. 
Ce  poignard  petit  est  une  clef  de  mon  coeur, 
Que  je  donne  quelquefois  a  mon  ami,  ma 

sceur, 

A  celui,  enfin,  qui  recoit,  dans  mes  lettres, 
Les  mots  le  plus  tendres  que  je  puis  y  mettre. 

Trpos  v/xas  rrjv 


ioo  ///  the  Morning. 

(If  once  on  a  jingle  like  this  voi  entrate, 
You  must  finish,  or — ogni  speranza  lasci- 

ate!) 

I  wish  I  knew  Indian,  but  somehow  nobody 
Seems  ever  to  learn  more  than  "  Passama- 

quoddy," 
Or    "  Mooselucmaguntic,"    "  Welokenneba- 

cook," 
"  Oquossuc,"  "  Musketequid,"  and  "  Quan- 

tibacook." 
To  compose  in  that  language  you  will  not 

deny 
Is  difficult.    If  you  don't  think  so  —  just  try. 


T  is  nonsense,  dear  friend,  but  I  feel  sure 
that  you 

Good-naturedly  smile,  and  yet  see  't  is  true. 

Unconscious  as  Lady  Macbeth  in  her  walk 
ing, 

We  give  in  our  letters  more  self  than  in 
talking. 

Perhaps  when  our  Father  looks  lovingly 
down 


Wit})  a  Small  Letter-opener,     ipi 

On  our  wandering  footsteps  in  country  and 

town, 

Our  burdens,  our  hindrances  all,  He  can  see, 
And  read  in  His  wisdom  more  surely  than 

we. 
Far  more  than  when  kneeling  by  altar  or 

crypt, 

Our  deeds  make  the  record,  in  broad,  cur 
sive  script. 
Thank  God  that  the  Reader  and  Father  are 

one, 
That  the   poor,  blotted   copy-book,  hardly 

begun, 

Is  read  by  Him  only  who  wrote  on  the  sand, 
And  the  torn  covers  folded  at  last  by  His 

hand. 
Hark  !  Christmas  bells  ring  for  the  birth  of 

the  Son  — 
Good-night !     May  He  help  us  and  bless  us 

each  one. 


IO2  In  the  Morning. 


SEA-GIRLS. 

FLUTTER  of  white 
On  Appledore's  shoulder,  • 
The  prettiest  sight ! 

A  flutter  of  white, 

One  by  one  they  alight 

On  the  dark,  jutting  bowlder  ; 

A  flutter  of  white 

On  Appledore's  shoulder. 

Six  girls  in  a  flock 

Where  the  white  sea  is  breaking 

Against  the  gray  rock. 

Six  girls  in  a  flock  — 

Their  gay  voices  mock 

The  din  it  is  making ; 

Six  girls  in  a  flock 

Where  the  white  sea  is  breaking. 


Sea-girls.  103 

Each  flutters  and  clings 
To  the  torn  granite  edges,  — 
The  merriest  things  ! 
Each  flutters  and  clings. 
Have  they  feathers  and  wings, 
As  they  perch  on  the  ledges  ? 
Each  flutters  and  clings 
To  the  torn  granite  edges. 


104  In  the  Morning. 


HOMEWARD. 

A   TWILIGHT   SONG   OF   THE   WHEEL. 

WAY  from  the  office  and  desk  at 

last, 

The  business-haunted  room, 
The  roar  of  a  city,  hurrying  past, 

The  heat,  the  worry,  the  gloom, 
To  the  glorious  red  of  the  sunset  sky, 

The  sweet,  cold  wine  of  the  air, 
On  the  frozen  road,  my  wheel  and  I, 
A  dusty,  rusty  pair  ! 

Push  —  Push  — 

Two  birds  in  a  bush 
Are  laughing  to  see  me  hop  ; 

On,  with  a  bound 

From  the  frozen  ground, 
With  never  a  sway  nor  stop. 


Homeward.  105 

Over  and  over  the  pedals  fly  — 

"  Come  on  !  "  to  the  twittering  bird  I  cry, 

As    over  and   over  the   wheels   fly  past 
her; 

Over  and  over,  still  faster  and  faster, 
On  through  the  ice-cold  stream  of  air, 
On  where  the  road  is  frozen  and  bare. 

Roll  —  Roll  —  Roll  —  Roll  — 
Silent  and  swift  as  a  death-freed  soul. 

Glide  — Glide  — 
On  the  smooth,  black  tide 
Of  the  ocean  of  night  flowing  in  from  the 

West, 

Over  and  over,  and  on  without  rest, 
Swifter  and  swifter,  till  over  the  crest 
Of  the  hill,  and  down  to  the  valley  below, 
Through  the  murk  of  the  mist  and  the  white 

of  the  snow  — 
Now  my   steed   falters,  as,  breathless   and 

slow, 
Up  the  steep  hillside  he  labors  and  grinds, 

Grinds  —  Grinds  —  Grinds  —  Grinds  — 
Across  and  across  he  turns  and  winds, 


io6  ///  the  Morning. 

Sand-clogged    and    rock-hindered,   without 

hope  or  faith, 

No  longer  a  soul,  but  a  sin-burdened  wraith  — 
Till,  reaching  the  summit,  he  spurns  the  dark 

hill, 
And  onward  he  plunges,  for  good  or  for  ill, 

Over  and  onward,  and  onward  and  over, 
He  reels  and  he  spins  like  a  jolly  old  rover. 

Roll  —  Roll  —  Roll  —  Roll  - 
Backward  he  flies  to  our  one  dear  goal, 
Where  the  whirling  shall  cease,  and  the  rider 

shall  rest, 

And  soft,  trembling  lips  to  my  own  shall 
be  pressed. 

Slow  —  Slow  —  Slow, 
Slowly  —  more  slowly  —  we  go  — 
What,  darling,  so  far  on  the  road  to-night, 
To  welcome  us  both  with  your  eyes'  sweet 

light ! 

The  wheel  no  longer  has  need  to  roam  — 
Be  quiet,  old  fellow  !  we  're  safe,  safe  at 
home. 


A  Nonsense-Song  for  M .      107 


A   NONSENSE-SONG   FOR   M- 


I. 

REATHING,  blowing, 

The  cool  breeze  is  blowing, 
High  in  the  tree-tops, 
Low  in  the  grasses, 
Softly  it  passes ; 
The  daisies  it  kisses 
And  never  one  misses, 
And  laughs  at  the  buttercups, 
Breathing  and  blowing, 
Its  blessing  bestowing 
On  all  that  it  passes 
Among  the  low  grasses 
And  daisies  and  buttercups, 

1  Suggested    by     George     MacDonald's    little 
book  of  that  name. 


io8  In  the  Morning. 

Never  one  misses, 
But  each  one  it  kisses. 
Softer  and  fainter  it  grows, 
Faintly  and  softly  it  blows, 

Breathing,  sighing, 

Dying, 
Sweetly  and  softly  it  goes, 

Goes  —  goes  ! 

II. 

Hark  to  the  wind  from  the  mountain-tops 
blowing  ! 

Raining,  snowing, 

Scattering    ice-drops    and    crimson    leaves 
blowing  ! 

Teasing  the  burnies 

With  all  their  soft  fernies, 

Bending  and  waving 

Among  the  green  mosses  ; 

Roaring  and  raving, 

The  long  hair  it  tosses 

Of  each  little  maiden 

Beside  the  brown  burnies 


A  Nonsense-Song  for  M .     109 

With  crimson  leaves  laden 
All  bound  for  the  sea, 
With  wee  boaties  laden, 
All  crimson  to  see, 
And  high  in  the  tree-tops 
It  rushes  and  roars  j 
It  leaps  from  the  hill-tops 
And  hurls  with  its  might  on  the  long,  rocky 

shores 

The  floods  of  the  sea, 
All    the    time    roaring    and    shouting   and 

blowing, 

Icy  drops  throwing, 
Blowing,  snowing, 
It  roars  ! 


III. 

What  shall  the  Soft  Breeze  do  for  thee  ? 
What  shall  I  do  with  my  faint,  sweet  blow 
ing, 

Breathing,  blowing, 
My  blessing  bestowing? 


no  In  the  Morning. 

I  pray  thee,  Soft  Breeze, 
Do  thou  blow,  for  me  ! 
Stir  in  the  trees 
And  breathe  in  the  grasses, 

The  soft,  low  grasses, 
And  when  the  tall  buttercup, 
Tall  in  the  grasses, 
Thy  light  foot  passes, 

Gather  for  me 

A  wee  grain  of  gold  from  its  treasures  rare, 
A  ray  of  the  sunlight  it  treasures  there  ; 
Then  beg  of  the  daisies  a  bit  of  their  white, 

Pure,  pure  white, 

And  two  tiny  petals,  crimson  tipped, 
Because  in  God's  love  they  have  just  been 

dipped, 
And  bearing  the  sunlight,  the  whiteness  and 

love, 

Breathing,  blowing, 
Fair  blessings  bestowing, 
Among  the  soft  grasses 
And  tree-tops  above, 
High  in  the  cloud-land's  silvery  sheen, 
Low  in  the  winding  valleys  between, 


A  Nonsense-Song  for  M .     1 1 1 

Seek  my  wee  girlie 

Who  's  just  thirteen, 

With  hair  so  curly,  — 
The  curliest  hair  you  ever  have  seen, 
The  brownest  hair  you  ever  have  seen,  — 

With  eyes  so  blue, 

Like  skies  so  blue, 

And  hide  thy  gifts  in  her  heart  so  true, 
For  to-day  she  's  just  thirteen, 
Thirteen. 

IV. 

What  shall  the  Fierce  Wind  do  for  thee  ? 
What  shall  I  do,  with  my  terrible  roaring, 

Raving,  roaring, 

Icy  drops  pouring? 

I  pray  thee,  Fierce  Wind, 

Do  thou  roar,  for  me  ! 
Shatter  the  crags  of  the  desolate  mountain, 
Scatter  the  drops  of  the  trembling  fountain, 
Ride  on  the  waves  of  the  tossing  sea, 

Tossing  and  spouting, 

Roaring  and  shouting ; 


OHI7BR3IT7 


ii2  In  the  Morning. 

Snatch  a  bright  leaf  from  the  burnie's  brink, 
And  a  drop  from  the  pool  where  the  white 

lambs  drink, 

A  wisp  of  hair  from  the  maiden  fern, 
Bending  over  the  laughing  burn  ; 
The  health  of  the  seas, 
The  life  of  the  trees, 
The  beauty  of  fernies, 
The  faith  of  bright  burnies, 
Life  and  beauty  and  health  and  faith, 
Whiteness  and  sunshine,  love  stronger  than 

death, 

These  to  the  maidie  that 's  just  thirteen 
Shall  all  be  given  to-day,  I  ween,  — 
Shall  all  be  given, 
In  blessing  from  Heaven,  — 
For  now  she  's  just  thirteen, 
And  her  eyes  are  so  blue, 
Sweet  skies  so  blue, 
And  her  heart  so  true, 
And  to-day  she  's  just  thirteen, 
Thirteen. 


Translations.  1 1 3 


TRANSLATIONS. 

SONGS    FROM    HEINE. 

N  the  north-land  standeth  a  pine-tree 

Alone,  on  a  hill-top  bare. 
It  sleepeth  beneath  a  mantle 
Of  snow  and  frost-work  rare. 


It  dreameth  long  of  a  palm-tree 
Which,  silent  as  a  star, 

On  the  burning  desert  mourneth 
In  Orient  lands  afar. 


A  LOVELY  flower  thou  seemest, 
So  tender,  sweet,  and  true ; 

And,  as  I  gaze,  steals  o'er  me 
A  sadness  strange  and  new. 
8 


ii4  In  the  Morning. 

Upon  thy  peaceful  forehead 
I  'd  lay  my  hands,  in  prayer 

That  God  may  ever  keep  thee 
As  tender,  true,  and  fair. 


EAGERLY  I  cry,  awaking, 

"Cometh  she  to-day?" 
Eventide  —  my  sad  heart,  breaking, 

Speaks  the  answer,  Nay  ! 

In  the  night  I  know  but  sorrow 
Till  the  dawn's  faint  beam ; 

Mist-enwrapped,  in  each  to-morrow, 
Agony  of  dream. 

HE  who  for  the  first  time  loveth, 
Godlike,  worlds  of  bliss  doth  rule ; 

He  who  twice  that  joy  essay eth, 
Luckless  wight  —  he  is  a  fool. 

Loving  where  no  love  returneth, 
Such  a  fool,  alas  !  —  am  I ; 

Sun  and  moon  and  stars  are  laughing, 
I  laugh,  too,  —  and  die. 


Translations.  1 1 5 

LITTLE  maid,  with  lips  so  rosy, 

With  thy  blue  eyes,  sweet  and  clear, 

All  my  thoughts  to  thee  are  flying, 
All  my  life  is  with  thee,  dear ! 

Slowly  pace  the  leaden-footed 

Hours  that  mark  the  winter's  night ; 

Ah,  that  I  were  now  beside  thee, 
Gazing,  murmuring  my  delight ! 

Kisses  would  I  press,  my  darling, 

On  thy  little  hand  to-night ; 
Nay  —  a  tear  should  fall,  unbidden, 

On  thy  little  hand  so  white. 


(ElCHENDORFF.) 

IT  was  as  if  the  heavens 

Had  kissed  the  earth  to  rest, 

And  she  lay  dreaming  of  them 
With  flowers  upon  her  breast. 


1 1 6  In  the  Morning. 

The  fields  and  murmuring  woodland 
Were  bathed  in  fairest  light, 

So  soft  the  breeze's  whisper, 
So  starry-clear  the  night ! 

On  outspread  wings  uplifted 
My  spirit  fain  would  roam 

Through  cloudland  realms  unbounded, 
To  rest  at  last  —  at  home. 


In  Morning-Land.  117 


IN   MORNING-LAND. 

N  Morning-land  the  radiant,  rosy  skies 
Each  moment  gleam  with  some 

new-born  surprise, 
Or  flush  with  dawning  hope  ;  the  balmy  air 
Is  laden  with  a  thousand  perfumes  rare 
And  thrilled  with  chords  of  strange,  sweet 
melodies. 

On  that  blest  shore,  which  all  around  us  lies, 
Peace  reigns  supreme,  and  joyous  carols  rise 
From  every  shaded  copse  and  pleasaunce  fair 
In  Morning-land. 

Knowst  thou  the  land?     Wherever  friendly 

eyes 
Beam  faith  and  constancy ;  where  true  love 

flies, 


1 1 8  In  the  Morning. 

Glad  tidings  of  good-will  and  peace  to  bear ; 
Where  service  is  divine,  God  everywhere, — 
There  dawns  the  perfect  day  that  never  dies 
In  Morning-land. 


Sic  Itur  ad  Astra.  119 


SIC    ITUR   AD   ASTRA. 


STOOD  in  a  valley  ;  above  me 

Uprose  a  mighty  hill ; 
The  air  was  vibrant  with  music 
Of  insect,  bird,  and  rill. 


The  flowers  among  the  grasses 

About  my  weary  feet 
Swung  all  their  tiny  censers, 

Till  perfume,  heavy-sweet, 

Was  shed  abroad  in  the  sunlight 

And  wafted  to  and  fro, 
While  droning  bees  at  the  altar 

Their  Aves  chanted  low. 

A  soft  breeze  touched  my  forehead, 
And  whispered,  "  Peace,  be  still !  " 

But  ever  above  me  towered 
That  silent,  awful  hill, 


I2O  In  the  Morning. 

Whose  peaks  in  mists  were  hidden, 
Whose  slopes  were  brown  and  bare  ; 

And  yet,  as  I  gazed,  I  murmured, 
"  O  God  !     If  I  were  there  !  " 

For  I  knew  that  the  peace  of  the  valley 

Was  never  meant  for  me  ; 
And  I  longed  for  the  mountain  summit,  • 

Its  pure  winds  blowing  free, 

Its  life  of  strength  and  vigor, 

Its  thoughts  of  the  good  and  true, 

Its  steadfast  crags  of  granite 
In  the  far-off,  heavenly  blue. 

I  stand  in  the  valley,  and  ever 
I  gaze  at  the  mountain  bare, 

And  I  long  for  a  hand  to  help  me  — 
O  God  !     That  I  were  there  ! 


The  Comet.  121 


THE   COMET:    NOVEMBER,  1882. 

JONDROUS  portent,  set  on  high, 
Moving  through  the  silent  sky, 
Clothed  in  formless  majesty,  — 

Who  can  read  those  words  of  light 

On  the  star-lit  wall  of  night  ? 

"  Mene,  Tekel"  dost  thou  write ? 

Nay,  thou  bright  Star  in  the  East, 
O'er  no  haughty  monarch's  feast, 
Prophet  nor  Chaldsean  priest, 

Doth  thy  gentle  radiance  shine  ; 
Nobler  resting-place  is  thine, 
'T  is  a  Baby's  brow  divine. 

With  the  waning  of  the  year 
From  afar  thou  dost  appear, 
Telling  us  that  Christ  is  near. 


122  In  the  Morning. 


"HIS  STAR." 

HRISTMAS  Eve  —  and  the  mellow 

light 
Of  the  Star  in  the   East  was 

aglow 

O'er  the  Magi,  hastening  through  the  night, 
In  the  desert,  long  ago. 

Christmas  Eve  —  and  the  gentle  light 

Of  the  Star  in  the  East  was  aglow 
O'er  the  lambs,  asleep  with  their  shepherds 

by  night, 
On  the  hillside,  long  ago. 

Christmas  Eve  —  and  the  golden  light 

Of  the  Star  in  the  East  was  aglow 
O'er  a  Baby's  brow,  in  the  holy  night, 
In  a  manger,  long  ago. 


"His  Star."  123 

Christmas  Eve  —  and  the  blessed  light 

Of  the  Star  in  the  East  is  aglow, 
As  it  shone  of  old,  through  the  sweet,  still 

night, 
O'er  Bethlehem,  long  ago. 


124  In  the  Morning. 


"LIGHT,   MEHR   LIGHT!" 

OB,  cold  wind  of  the  sky, 

For  the  rest   that   never  shall 

come  ! 
The  stars  have  gathered  on  high, 

The  moon's  white  lips  are  dumb, 
And  over  her  face  like  a  shroud 
Lies  the  wrack  of  the  drifting  cloud. 

Moan,  dark  sea  of  the  night ! 

Fling  up  thine  arms  and  implore 
The  heavens  for  light,  sweet  light,  — 

One  sparkle  along  the  shore 
From  the  sun  that  left  thee  to  moan 
In  the  horror  of  darkness  —  alone. 

Shudder,  thou  one  human  soul, 
Forever  alone  in  the  night ; 


"Licbt,  Mebr  Licbt  1 "         125 

Whose  billows  unceasingly  roll 
In  desolate  seeking  for  light ! 
The  moon's  white  face  is  thine  own, 
Thine,  thine  the  wind's  monotone. 

Thyself  art  the  night  — 

O  God,  light,  light ! 


126  In  the  Morning. 


PSALM    LXXX. 

URN  us  again,  O  God  of  Hosts, 

and  cause 
Thy  face  to  shine." 

When  fades  the  light  of  day, 
And  night  in  silence  steals  across  the  sky, 
We  know  it  is  not  that  the  glorious  sun 
Has  left  his  steadfast  throne  amid  the  heavens, 
But  that  our  little  earth  has  turned  away 
And  hid  its  face  till  morning  shall  appear. 
So  may  we,  in  our  blackest  night  of  doubt 
And  troubled  thought,  return  once  more  to 

Thee, 

Till  Thou  hast  risen,  O  San  of  Righteousness, 
And  all  the  evil  things  of  darkness  born 
Have  fled  before  the  shining  of  Thy  face. 


Unto  the  Perfect  Day.          127 


UNTO   THE   PERFECT   DAY. 


MORNING-GLORY   bud,    en 
tangled  fast 
Amid  the  meshes  of  its  winding 

stem, 

Strove  vainly  with  the  coils  about  it  cast, 
Until  the  gardener  came  and  loosened  them. 

A  suffering  human  life  entangled  lay 

Among  the  tightening  coils  of  its  own  past ; 

The  Gardener  came,  the  fetters  fell  away, 
The  life  unfolded  to  the  sun  at  last. 


128  ///  the  Morning. 


HYMN   FOR  CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

MIGHTY  world  is  hushed  to-night 

In  sweet  expectancy ; 
O'er  snowy  field  and  wood  the 

stainless  light 
Of  the  clear  moon 
Shines  broad  and  free  ; 
While  peacefully  the  earth  — 
A  great  white  throne 
Prepared  for  One  who  soon 
Shall  rise  and  claim  it  for  His  own  — 
Awaits  His  birth. 

The  hearts  of  all  mankind  are  turned 

Toward  lowly  Bethlehem ; 
For  in  the  east  the  wondrous  Star,  that  burned 

In  days  of  old, 

Still  beckons  them. 


Hymn  for  Christmas  Eve.     129 

Back  o'er  the  centuries, 

Storm-swept  and  bare, 

It  moves,  until,  behold  ! 
It  stands  above  the  manger  where 
The  Young  Child  lies. 

O  Christmas  chimes,  right  joyfully 

Ring  out  the  tidings  glad 
To  stars  and  frosty  air  and  listening  sky,  — 
"  Good- will  to  men  !  " 
Till  all  the  sad, 
The  weary  and  oppressed, 
Their  gifts  shall  bring 
To  Him  whose  birth  again 
Sheds  peace  on  earth,  and,  worshipping, 
Shall  be  at  rest. 


130  In  the  Morning. 


BLIND. 

HROUGHOUT  the  weary  day  an 

Eastern  sun 
Had  poured  his  beams  upon  the 

whitened  walls 

Of  Jericho,  till  e'en  the  drooping  palms 
Refused  to  comfort  with  their  wonted  shade 
The  passer-by.     As  in  a  furnace  blast  — 
The  glaring  pavement  spread  beneath,  o'er- 

head 

A  brazen,  cloudless  sky  —  all  living  things 
Had  gasped,  with  parching  lips,  and  feebly 

prayed 
For  night. 

'T  was  eventide  ;  the  northern  hills 
Breathed  forth  a  blessing  on  the  multitude 
That   thronged  incessant   through   the  city 
gates. 


Blind.  131 

Softly  the  mist  crept   forth,  and  o'er  their 

heads 

Her  dewy  wings  unfolded.     In  the  west 
The  molten  brass  of  noontide  turned  to  gold, 
And  shone  like  some  fair  missal's  page,  with 

hymns 

And  promises  illumined. 

One  there  was 

Among  the  restless  souls  beneath  its  glow, 
For  whom  the  heavenly  message  was    not 

writ ; 
For  whom  no  sunset  gleamed,  nor  morning 

dawned. 

Oft  had  he  listened  to  the  merry  shout 
And  laughter  of  the  children  at  their  sports, 
But  ne'er  had  looked  upon  their  sparkling 

eyes. 

Alone,  he  walked  in  darkness  through  a  life 
Of  nights,    with   never  hope   of  day.     But 

hark! 

Upon  his  ear  there  falls  a  gentle  voice, 
Whose  tones  of  strange  and  heavenly  sweet 
ness  thrill 

His  very  heart.     "  'T  is  Jesus,  't  is  the  Christ 
Of  Nazareth  !  "     The  woes  of  heavy  years, 


132  In  tbe  Morning. 

The  quick-born  hope,  the  old-time,  dull  de 
spair, 

The  agony  of  help  so  near  at  hand, 
Yet  passing,  blend  in  one  wild,  bitter  cry : 
"  Jesus,  thou  Son  of  David,  I  am  blind  ! 
Have  mercy  on  me  ! "  —  and  the   Saviour 

hears. 

Blind  Bartimeus  by  the  road-side  waits 
In  anguish  mute  and  trembling,  when,  O  joy  ! 
The  bringer  of  glad  tidings  is  at  hand  : 
"  Be  of  good  comfort,  rise,  he  calleth  thee  !  " 

O  weary,  heavy-laden  one,  whose  eyes 
Have    long    been   sightless  to  behold  the 

truth,  — 

Perchance  in  darkness  walking  even  now, 
And  longing  with  an  aching  heart  for  light,  — 
The  Master's  message  echoes  sweetly  still : 
"  Be  of  good  comfort,  rise,  He  calleth  thee." 
And  humbly  kneeling  at  His  feet,  the  words 
Of  healing,  spoken  in  the  olden  time 
To  him  who  prayed  for  help,  thou  too  shalt 

hear : 
"  Receive  thy  sight,  thy  faith  hath  made  thee 

whole." 


Refuge.  133 


REFUGE. 

OW  bad  I  am,  O  Lord,  Thou  know- 

est, 
Deserving  naught  that  Thou  be- 

stowest, 

But  wandering  each  day 
Astray. 


Thy  gifts  are  perfect,  never  ceasing, 
The  debt  against  me  still  increasing, 
And  yet  I  turn  to  flee 
From  Thee  ! 

Oft  when  my  path  is  dark  and  narrow 
There  flutters  down  some  tiny  sparrow 
To  tell  me  of  that  love 
Above. 


134  In  the  Morning. 

When  daylight  comes,  I  'm  e'er  forgetting 
The  message  sweet ;  my  sins  besetting 
Return,  my  soul  to  stain 
Again. 

And  so  I  cling  to  Thee,  my  Saviour, 
Despairing  by  my  own  behavior 

To  cleanse  myself  from  sin 
Within. 

My  cares  I  yield  —  for  me  Thou  carest ; 
I  take  my  cross  —  its  weight  Thou  sharest ; 
Henceforth  my  will  be  Thine, 
Not  mine. 


Guide  Rent's  "  Ecce  Homo."     135 


GUIDO   RENI'S   "ECCE   HOMO." 

THORN-CROWNED  head,  the 

sins  of  all  the  world 
Have  pierced  thy  brow ; 
O  gentle  face,  the  woes  of  all  the  world 
Thou  bearest  now  ! 

O   patient    eyes,   to    heaven    in    meekness 

turned, 

Meekness  divine, 

Within  your  suffering  depths  what  wondrous 

light 

Of  love  doth  shine  ! 

O  faltering,  parted  lips,  with  anguish  wrung, 

Your  words  still  live 

And  plead  for  us,  —  "  They  know  not  what 
they  do  — 

Father,  forgive ! " 


136  ///  the  Morning. 


ON    CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

HE  day's  loud  footfalls  die  away, 
And  stealing  forth  from  her  retreat 
Like  a  hooded  nun,  the  twilight 

gray 

Glides  softly  down  the  busy  street. 
With  healing  touch  her  gentle  hand 
Rests  on  the  city's  fevered  brow ; 
Its  throbbing  pulse  is  quiet  now, 
And  peace  descends  on  the  weary  land. 
Since  morn  the  dull  December  sky 
Has  wept  and  moaned  incessantly ; 
The  tall,  gaunt  forms  of  shivering  trees 
Have  groaned  and  rattled  their  bony  arms, 
Till,  startled  by  the  restless  breeze, 
The  withered  sprites  of  summer  leaves 
Have  gathered  to  whisper  their  vague  alarms, 
Now  whirling  aloft  to  the  dripping  eaves, 


On  Christmas  Eve.  137 

Now  wavering  slow  to  earth  again, 
Borne  down  by  the  pitiless,  hopeless  rain. 
Upon  my  hearth  the  ruddy  light 
Dances  and  plays  at  the  fire-dogs'  feet 
Chasing  the  shadows  out  of  sight ; 
Around  the  walls  it  follows  them  fast, 
Hunts  them  into  a  corner  at  last, 
Up  the  chimney,  out  into  the  night. 
The  blaze  laughs  loud  with  a  music  sweet, 
My  heart  grows  warm  in  its  cheery  glow, 
And  a  thousand  fancies  come  and  go. 
The  perfumed  breath  of  the  birchen  brand, 
Rich  with  forest  spices  rare, 
Bears  heavenward  many  a  hope  and  prayer 
That  only  One  can  understand. 
Oh  that  my  life  were  sweet  and  pure 
As  the  incense  of  this  burning  wood  ! 
Oh  that  my  faith  were  strong  and  sure 
As  the  flame  that  ever  strives  toward  God  ! 
I  hear  the  sound  of  the  sleet  and  rain 
Brushing  against  my  window-pane ; 
The  voice  of  the  wind  is  sad  and  low, 
The  shadows  return,  and  to  and  fro 
They  flit  and  hover  uneasily, 
Until  at  last  they  rest  on  me. 


138  In  the  Morning. 

Heap  high  the  sturdy  fire-dogs'  backs 
With  boughs  of  hemlock,  birch,  and  pine. 
The  crisp  bark  curls,  and  smokes,  and  cracks  ; 
It  comes  at  last,  the  spark  divine, 
And  bursting  forth  in  broad,  free  laughter, 
The  glorious  blaze  comes  hurrying  after, 
Springs  up  the  chimney  with  a  roar, 
Chasing  the  shadows  away  once  more, 
Shining  far  out  upon  the  floor, 
And  sweeping  away  on  its  gladsome  tide 
The  fears  and  doubts,  o'er  which  I  sighed, 
To  the  depths  of  the  sea,  to  the  depths  of 

the  sea,  — 
The  cares  and  sins  that  have  haunted  me  ! 

I  thank  thee  for  thy  help,  sweet  hour, 
For  thou  hast  helped  me  true  and  well ; 
I  thank  thee  for  the  gentle  spell 
Beneath  which  thou  dost  wield  thy  power, 
And  when  the  twilight  seeks  at  morn 
Her  convent  walls  within  the  west, 
My  soul  shall  know  its  truest  rest, 
And  bless  the  day  when  Christ  was  born. 


By  Night.  139 


BY   NIGHT. 

'ER  Judah's  dark  hill-tops  the  star 
light  is  shining ; 
In  silence  the  silvery  light 
Falls  soft  on  the  white,  sleeping  lambs  and 
their  shepherds, 

By  night. 

Sleep  on,  trustful  flocks,  while  shepherds  are 

watching ; 

Fear  not,  for  soon  shall  be  born 
The  dear  Lamb   of  God,  in  a  Bethlehem 

manger, 

This  morn. 

Keep  watch,  faithful  shepherds,  through  gath 
ering  shadows, 

Though  the  hillside  be  lonely  and  drear  ; 
For  lo,  in  the  darkness  the  Shepherd  of  shep 
herds 

Is  near  ! 


140  In  the  Morning. 

Sing  on,  ye  bright  angels,  repeat  the  glad 

tidings,  — 

Joy,  peace,  and  good-will  on  the  earth ; 
Proclaim  to  the  weary,  the  sad,  and  the  suffer 
ing, 

His  birth. 

Shine,  radiant  Star  in  the  East,  till  thy  glory 
O'er  Wise  Men  and  manger  is  poured, 
For  Mary's  dear  babe  is  the  blessed  Christ 

Jesus, 

Our  Lord. 


' '  Star  of  Bethlehem ."  141 


STAR   OF   BETHLEHEM/ 


ENTLE-FACED  child-flower 

One  of  the  least  — 
Dost  thou  remember 
The  Star  in  the  East, 
Bethlehem's  hill-tops 

Flushing  with  morn, 
When  in  a  manger 

The  dear  Christ  was  born  ? 

Lambs  on  the  hillside 

Peacefully  slept ; 
Shepherds,  abiding  near, 

Faithful  watch  kept. 
Bright  in  the  heavens 

Shone  a  new  star, 
Guiding  o'er  deserts 

Wise  Men  from  afar. 


142  In  the  Morning. 

White  Flower  of  Bethlehem, 

Lo,  it  is  morn  ! 
Shine  on  the  manger 

Where  Jesus  was  born. 
We,  too,  shall  find  Him, 

Though  humblest  and  least, 
Led  by  thy  radiance, 

Bright  Star  in  the  East. 


Blessed."  143 


"BLESSED." 

LESSED  are  they  that  mourn." 

The  gentle  tones, 
A  moment  faltering,  then  strong 

and  sweet, 

Ring  out  upon  the  morning  air.     The  throng 
Wait  silently,  lest  by  a  whispered  sigh 
Or  quick-drawn  breath  a  word  should  fall  un 
heard 
From    Him,   the  wonderful,  the    Prince  of 

Peace. 
"  Blessed  "  —  the  widow,  shuddering,  draws 

more  close 

Her  sombre  draperies,  and  bows  her  head 
In  agony  of  dumb  and  hopeless  grief. 

—  "  Are  they  that  mourn  !  "  A  dry,  half- 
stifled  sob 

Bursts  from  a  gray-haired  man ;  't  was  yes 
terday 


144  In  the  Morning. 

They  buried  all  most  dear  to  him  on  earth, 
And  sun  and  stars  were  blotted  out.     Hot 

tears 

Fall  thickly  on  his  knotted,  sunburnt  hands, 
And  still  he  listens  to  that  strange,  sweet  voice. 

"  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn."     What  ach 
ing  hearts 

Among  the  eager,  silent  multitude 

Cry  out  in  bitter  anguish  that  His  words 

Are  vain  and  mocking  ! 

Lo,  the  Saviour  turns 

With  infinite  compassion  in  His  eye, 

And  stretching  forth  His  hands  as  though  to 
give 

The  blessing  He  has  promised,  speaks  again  : 

"  They  shall  be  comforted  !  " 

The  morning  sun 

Breaks  forth  in  triumph  from  the  heavy  clouds 
That  hid  His  face.     The  waves  of  Galilee, 
Gleaming  far  distant  in  the  misty  east, 
Cast  off  the  shrou4  of  night.      The  air  is 

full 
Of  waking  glory.     But  of  all  who  feel 


Blessed." 


145 


The  gladness  and  the  freshness  of  the  morn, 
Those  only  who  have  passed  through  deep 

est  gloom 

Receive  the  fulness  of  that  new,  sweet  peace 
His  words  have  given,  —  and  they  are  com 

forted  ! 


ro 


146  ///  the  Morning. 


A   CHRISTMAS   PASTORAL. 

HE  shepherds  were  keeping  their 

watch  by  night, 

In  the  field  with  their  flock  abid 
ing; 
And  soft  on  the  fleece  of  the  lambs  fell  the 

light 

Of  a  new-risen  star, 
From  deserts  afar 
The  wise  ones  to  Bethlehem  guiding. 

What   startles    the   watchers?     A   rustle    of 

wings, 

And  a  radiant  figure  above  them. 
The  lambs  are  afraid,  and  the  white,  woolly 

things, 

With  tremulous  bleat, 
Nestle  close  to  the  feet 
Of  the  faithful  shepherds  who  love  them. 


A  Christmas  Pastoral.  147 

"  Fear  not ! "  comes  the  message,  exultant 

and  strong, 

"  Good  tidings  of  joy  I  am  bringing  !  " 
And  lo  !  with  the  song  of  a  heavenly  throng, 
"  Peace  on  earth !     For  this  morn 
A  Saviour  is  born  !  " 
The  hillsides  of  Judah  are  ringing. 

The  bright  ones  are  gone  ;  over  thicket  and 

stone 

The  starlight  of  Christmas  is  falling  ; 
But  the  lambs,  without  even  an  angel,  alone 
In  the  great  silent  night, 
With  sudden  affright, 
For  their  lost  shepherds  vainly  are  calling. 

They  knew  not  a  tenderer  Shepherd  was  near, 

His  flocks  to  deliver  from  danger, 
And  comfort  all  desolate  lambs  in  their  fear,  — 
For  peacefully  lay, 
On  that  first  Christmas  day, 
Lord  Christ,  in  a  Bethlehem  manger. 


148  In  the  Morning. 


THE   FOURTH   WATCH. 

^IDNIGHT  upon  Gennesaret;   the 

restless  waves, 
Like  jewels  on  the  troubled  bosom 

of  the  sea, 
Flash  forth  in  rays  of  silvery  light,  or  hide 

within 
Her  dark  and  flowing  tresses.     Soft,  as  in  a 

dream, 
The  night-winds  sigh  and  whisper  o'er  the 

little  ship, 

While  from  the  far-off,  shadowy  hills  of  Galilee 
Their   cool   breath    gently   fans   the   weary 

twelve,  as  rests 

A  loving  hand  upon  a  fevered,  aching  brow. 
Deserted  lies  the  quiet,  moon-lit  shore,  but 

all 


The  Fourth  Watch.  149 

The  air    is  heavy  with  the  perfume  of  the 

grass, 

Crushed  into  fragrance  by  the  waiting  multi 
tude 
Whom  Jesus  fed.     The  Giver  of  the  bread  of 

life 
Has  gone  apart  upon  the  mountain-side  to 

pray, 
Alone. 

The  night  is  dark,  the  Master  is  not  come ; 
The   sea   arises,   and    on    every    side    the 

waves 
Gigantic,  black,  and  topped  with  lurid  crests 

of  foam, 
Leap  madly  through  the  gloom.     Labors  the 

little  ship, 
Hurled  to  and  fro  and  beaten  back  upon  her 

course. 
With  slow  and  stubborn  stroke  the  rowers 

wearily 
Are  straining  at  the  heavy  oars.     But  hark  ! 

above 
The  sullen  roar  of  wind  and  sea,  a  well-loved 

voice, 


150  In  the  Morning. 

Vibrant  and  sweet  with  chords  of  heavenly 

music,  speaks, 
And   they  were   sore  afraid;  but  He  saith 

unto  them, 
"Be  of  good  cheer,  'tis  I,  be  not  afraid." 

And  lo, 
The  tempest   ceased !    and   when  they  had 

received  their  Lord, 
The  ship  had  come   unto  the   haven   they 

desired. 


"  With  You  Alway."  1 5 


WITH  YOU  ALWAY." 

HY  seek  ye  for  Jehovah 
Mid  Sinai's  awful  smoke  ? 
The  burning  bush  now  shelters 
A  sparrow's  humble  folk ; 
The  curve  of  God's  sweet  heaven 
Is  the  curve  of  the  leaf  of  oak ; 
The  Voice  that  stilled  the  tempest 
To  little  children  spoke,  — 
The  bread  of  life  eternal 
Is  the  bread  He  blessed  and  broke. 


IS2  In  the  Morning. 


DECEMBER  31. 

JNOTHER  year  ! 

What  is  the  story  by  the  twelve 
month  told? 
What  treasure  doth  its  memory  enfold,  — 

Base  coin,  or  gold  ? 
Sternly  hath  it  hard  lessons  taught, 
Hath  it  new  cares,  new  joys,  new  burdens 

brought  ? 
Few  smiles,  and  many  a  tear  ? 

Another  year  ! 
What  good   and   perfect  gifts  have  gently 

come  — 
Knowing  not  whence,  we  have  been  blind 

and  dumb  ! 
We  ate  the  crumb 

Without  the  sparrow's  faith,  but  still, 
Father  of  Lights,  Thou  shinest  on,  and  will, 
Thy  frightened  birds  to  cheer. 


December  31.  153 

Another  year ! 

The  sunlight  pours  its  blessings  as  of  old, 
Into  the  lap  of  each  dear  day,  —  its  gold, 

Its  wealth  untold. 
As  lessons  new  and  sweet  we  gain, 
Still  hoping  to  the  highest  to  attain, 

We  trust,  and  never  fear. 

Another  year ! 

But  to  the  brave  and  true,  lo,  time  is  not ! 
A  thousand  years  are  as  a  day,  forgot 

The  hardest  lot, 

To  those  who  walk  beside  their  God, 
Loving  the  path  His  patient  feet  have  trod, 

Knowing  that  He  is  near. 


154  In  tbe  Morning. 


IN   MY  ARM-CHAIR. 

LICKERS  the  ruddy  firelight  on  the 

wall ; 
Now  here,  now  there,  the  shadows 

restlessly 

Dance  in  and  out  among  the  gleaming  bars 
That  prison  many  a  glimpse  of  sea  and  sky 
Upon  the  pictured  canvas.     Brightly  falls 
The  cheerful  light  upon  familiar  forms 
Of  volumes  clothed  in  sober  garb  and  gay, 
Whose  very  names,  in  golden  characters, 
Invite  to  solace  sweet,  and  peace  of  mind. 
Footfalls  incessant  in  the  rainy  street 
Mingle  their  dreary  cadence  with  the  roll 
And  rhythmic  echo  of  the  iron  wheel, 
Half  muffled  by  the  storm's  dull  monotone. 
Within,  the  gentle  presence  of  the  flame, 
With  its  soft  rustle  ever  and  anon, 


In  my  Arm-Chair.  155 

Serves  but  to  take  away  the  very  pain 
Of  silence  absolute. 

It  is  the  hour 

For  contemplation  meet.    The  air  is  thronged 
With  thoughts  innumerable,  fancies  light, 
That  flit  about  on  airy  wing,  or  play 
Among  the  fireborn  shadows  on  the  wall ; 
Till,  touched  by  the  Promethean  glow,  they 

take 

A  seeming  form  substantial,  animate. 
From  out  their  thin  octavo  cells  pour  forth 
The  shapes  ethereal  of  poet,  sage, 
Philosopher,  and  man  of  God,  whose  words 
Make  wisdom  beautiful,  and  beauty  wise. 
Silent  they  rise  before  me,  one  by  one, 
E'en  as  the  fabled  genius,  close  involved 
Within  the  tiny  casket,  gained  at  last 
His  proper  self,  and  towered  high  above 
His  liberator.     But  of  other  mien 
Are  these  strange  forms  around  my  hearth 

to-night. 

With  aspect  grave,  yet  kind,  they  gaze  on  me 
As  old  companions  might  on  one  they  loved, 
Who  loved  them  in  return.  I  know  each  one, 


156  In  the  Morning. 

And  recognize  the  habit  of  his  life. 

Old  Gilbert  White  —  whose   flowing  locks, 

and  dress 

Of  quaint  antiquity,  precise  and  neat, 
Recall  his  quiet  walks  in  Selborne  wood  — 
Has  paused  with  curious,  meditative  eye, 
Before  an  owl  upon  my  mantle  shelf, 
And  rapidly,  in  shadowy  script,  records 
The  sapient  bird's  presentment. 

Near  at  hand, 

A  man  of  kindly  countenance  and  mild, 
Impressed   with  lines    of   pure   and   noble 

thought, 
Bends  low  in  prayer ;  ere  long  resumes  his 

pen, 
And  adds  one  more  sweet  hymn  to  those 

that  bear 

George  Herbert's  name.    Anon  appears  a  face 
More  gentle  than  the  rest,  it  seems,  with  eyes 
Of  deep  and  tender  yearning.     Silently 
The  figure  turns  aside,  and  by  the  hearth 
Remains  aloof,  with  dreamy  gaze  intent 
Upon  the  glowing  coals.     What  fantasies 
Are  imaged  there,  reflected  from  his  mind, 


In  my  Arm-Chair.  157 

And  striving  for  the  elixir  of  his  touch 
And  wondrous  pen,  that  give  eternal  life 
To  such  as  they  !     Lo,  built  of  candent  fire 
The  Old  Manse  drops  its  Mosses  at  his  feet ; 
Italia's  strange  physician  whispers  now 
Of  potent  herb  and  flower.     The  Puritan, 
His  wonted  sternness  softened,  deigns  to  tell 
Of  old-time  guilt —  the  Scarlet  Letter's  brand — 
Till,  glancing  up,  he  shudders  at  the  approach 
Of  stricken  Hester,  with  her  demon  child. 

So  wanes  the  night.     In  quick   succession 

move 

Shades  of  the  mighty  dead  before  my  eyes. 
Again  is  played  the  Comedy  Divine, 
And  gloomily  the  awful  form  of  him 
Whose  mind  such  Titan  offspring  bore,  attends 
The  movement  of  each  scene.    The  cowl  and 

robe, 

Close  at  his  side,  betray  that  zealous  monk 
Whose  life  was  Imitation  of  the  Christ. 
Amid  the  still  increasing  throng,  behold 
Sage  Izaak  Walton,  creel  and  rod  in  hand ; 
But  while  I  gaze  upon  his  visage  mild, 


1 58  In  the  Morning. 

Expectant  half  to  hear  his  counsel  how 
The  wily  carp  to  ensnare,  the  fiery  bridge 
O'er  which  my  fancy  boldly  trod,  and  found 
Her  way  to  realms  unreal,  topples  down 
With  mimic  crash,  and  lies  a  ruined  mass 
Upon  the  hearth.     Yet  by  its  waning  glow 
I  see  the  hurried  parting  of  my  guests, 
Retreating  each  within  his  narrow  cell ; 
As  when  beneath  a  monastery  roof 
The  low,  sweet  chant  of  vespers  dies  away,  — 
The  last  faint  echoes  lingering  still  within 
The  moonlit  cloisters,  —  silently  the  forms 
Of  holy  men  glide  to  and  fro  among 
The  shadows,  till  the  hush  of  night  descends 
With  brooding  wings,  and  gathers  all  to  rest. 


THE    END. 


UNIVERSITY  OP  CALIFORNIA  ^.BRARY 


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